Shirley Holmes: A Study in Pink
by classicdisneyFTW
Summary: FEMLOCK. Jennifer Watson is struggling to recover from a traumatic car accident when she meets an unusual woman named Shirley Holmes. This is basically "A Study in Pink", but with some twists. I swear, it's more interesting than it sounds!
1. Jen Watson

_Hi, y'all! It's been so long since I've been in the world of fanfiction! I've had this story stewing in my mind for a long time now and finally decided to start writing it. I'm sure it's been done before, but I haven't written in so long, I just needed something to do. Reviews are much appreciated and motivate me to write faster! :)_

It was happening again. I was in the car once more, tossing over again and again. Glass flying everywhere, as the roof and sides caved in around me. The car flipped three times before finally coming to a halt on its side. I opened my eyes, breathing heavily. I looked up for my other passengers, my mother and father. But before I could determine anything else, we were hit again by another oncoming car, sending the car skidding across the pavement.

Then I opened my eyes with a start.

My name is Jen. Well actually, my name is Jennifer. Jennifer Hannah Watson, but nobody ever calls me Jennifer. Please, just call me Jen. That car wreck was three years ago and yet, I still dream about it almost every night. It's practically engraved into my memory forever. I lost both my parents in that accident. And it was my fault.

I mean, I was the one driving after all, and if I had just seen that other car speed out of nowhere, I might have prevented the entire thing.

My therapist says that it would take me a while to adjust back to normal life, but is it normal to suffer post-traumatic stress for three years? I'm a doctor of physical health, not mental. I wouldn't really know. Anyways, my therapist's idea of dealing with my adjustment back into a normal life is to write a blog. Quite frankly, I didn't have much interest in doing such a thing since absolutely nothing happened in my life. Ever.

However, all that was all about to change one day. One unexpected day. The day I met Shirley Holmes.


	2. Shirley Holmes

It started out as any other boring day in January. I woke up, had my usual cup of coffee, and then proceeded to engage in my typical activities. Activities that did not include a lot of standing or walking around, since I still had a lingering limp from my accident and walked with a cane.

Eventually, I decided that I would go for a walk. Although it did pain me, I hated being cooped up inside and longed for action. I was a very active person before the accident. I played every sport imaginable, I did gymnastics, I was a marathon runner, and I even hunted for sport, in fact, I'm a crack shot with a gun.

I pulled on my boots, orange-striped sweater, and black coat, then grabbed my cane and headed out of my apartment. Actually, it wasn't really an apartment. More of a hotel really. And a crap one at that. I was a doctor and I did make good money once, but since my accident I had been out of practice.

For the past three years I had been living on my savings which I lived off well for a while. I even recently took a vacation in India, hoping that I could soothe my endless longing for adventure and activity. Unfortunately, the trip did very little for me and worsened my financial situation.

Now that I had returned to London, I lived in a crumby room with no income, a crippled leg, and an exceedingly dull life.

I found myself limping through the park near my flat. As I was gazing mindlessly ahead, I heard my name being called from behind.

"Jen! Jen Watson!"

I turned around and saw my old school friend, Michelle Stamford, running towards me. Her round rosy face had not changed at all since I last saw her and her perfectly white, but slightly crooked teeth shone out from beneath her huge red lips as she grinned at me.

"Jen!" she cried jovially, "Oh, Jen! Do you remember me? We were at Bards together!"

I nodded, smiling in return. "Michelle. Of course I do," I replied sounding enormously less bubbly than her.

She took my hand and squeezed it. "Oh, Jen! I'm so happy to see you! I heard about your accident. I'm so sorry. But I heard you went off to Africa or something?"

"India," I corrected.

"Ah," Michelle said. She began pulling on my arm, "Come, you have to tell me all about it! I'll buy you coffee!"

Michelle dragged me to a cafe where she purchased us both a cup of coffee. We then sat on a bench outside while I told her about my trip. I tried to sound as enthusiastic as possible, although it was really unnecessary since Michelle would be excited by anything I said no matter how I said it. I could have told her how I buttered my toast and she would have thought it was just as interesting as if I told her I was the first astronaut who walked on Mars.

Eventually we drifted into small talk. "So are you still at Bards then?" I asked her casually.

"I'm teaching now," she replied, "Professor Stamford. Golly, that sounds funny, doesn't it?"

I smiled in agreement.

She sighed, smiling. "And what about you? Are you staying in town or...?"

"For now, but I don't think I will for much longer," I told her.

"What? Why not? You love London!"

I shrugged. "Maybe, but money's down. I can't afford it anymore."

"Couldn't Harry help?"

I snorted. "Yeah, like that's gonna happen."

Michelle took a sip of her coffee, thoughtfully. "Maybe... you could get a flat-share?" she suggested, "You know, find a flatmate. Then you could share the expenses!"

I couldn't help, but smirk at that. "Come on, Michelle," I said, "Who would want me for a flatmate?"

Michelle's response surprised me. I expected her to look away quietly for a moment before coming up with another solution (which I would probably shoot down again), but she didn't. Instead, she let out a low chuckle, as if thinking to herself.

"What?" I wondered.

"Nothing, really," she replied, "It's just that, someone else said those exact words to me this morning."

I raised an eyebrow. "Who?"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Michelle took me to Bards Hospital; the hospital where she and I once studied several years ago. Michelle did not tell me anything about my prospective flatmate on the way. For all I knew, this woman could be a serial killer who had brutally murdered all her past flatmates and stashed their bodies away to never be discovered. That would explain why she had a hard time finding someone to room with her. Or maybe she was a criminal. Once imprisoned, always committing petty crimes like car robberies or something. Then she would return to our flat with her collections of the night.

Honestly, I did not really care about whatever faults she might've had as long as she wasn't some serial killer or criminal.

Michelle and I finally reached the hospital and entered the lab. The first thing I noticed was how "teched-up" the lab was compared to how the labs used to be when I was studying there.

"Hmm, a bit different from my day," I remarked in good humor.

"You have no idea," Michelle replied.

"Michelle, can I borrow your phone? I can't get a signal on mine."

It was then that I became aware of the other person in the room. A tall, slender woman sat on a stool on the opposite side of the room, fiddling with the phone in her hand. Never had I seen a woman quite like her before. Her pale, almost ghost-like, complexion glowed beneath her short, dark hair which hung elegantly around her face in dark curls. Her face was sharp all around with high cheek bones, pinpoint nose, and a pointed chin. Then she wore all dark colors. Black pencil skirt and a matching black coat, a purple blouse, and sleek knee-high boots. She somehow reminded me of a vampire without the whole monster part.

Michelle, however, was more busy with addressing the woman's question rather than taking in her appearance. "What's wrong with the landline?" she asked.

"I'd much rather text," the woman responded, not looking up.

Michelle searched her pockets for a moment, then shrugged. "Sorry. I left it in my other coat."

I decided to take this opportunity to introduce myself into the conversation. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone. "Here," I said, holding it up, "You can use mine."

The woman finally looked up from whatever she was working so intently on at her stool and looked at me. "Oh. Thank you."

She stood up and almost seemed to swagger over to me to collect the phone.

"This is my friend, Jennifer Watson," Michelle introduced me, "But everyone calls her Jen."

The woman took my phone and immediately began texting on it. "How was India?" she asked.

I froze. I wondered if I had heard her correctly. "What?"

"I asked "how was India?". You were just there, weren't you?" the woman asked.

I glanced, confused and shocked, at Michelle who almost seemed to be smirking at my dispense. I turned back to the woman. "Yes, I was. But how did you...?"

I was interrupted by the door opening. A bean-pole figured young man with round glasses and brown hair entered, hunched over a cup of something.

"Ah, Michael, coffee. Thank you," the woman said, taking the cup from the little man. She peered closely at him. "Why did you put your hair back like that again?"

"Uhh... I decided I liked it better this way?" he responded.

"Really? I thought it was better just a minute ago. You looked less... greasy."

Michael looked down at his feet. "OK..." he mumbled and shuffled out of the room again.

The woman sipped the coffee and then walked back to her stool again. "What do you think about the violin?"

There was a short silence before it occurred to me that the question was intended for me. But I had no idea why she would want to know my opinion on a musical instrument. "Huh?" I asked.

"I play the violin while I'm thinking," she replied, "And sometimes I won't talk for days at a time if I get in the mood. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other."

I stared at her for a second. This woman baffled me more and more with every word that come out of her mouth. "Who said anything about flatmates?" I asked.

"I did. I told Michelle this morning that I'm a very hard person to find a flatmate for," the woman said, as she began to pull on her black overcoat and a blue scarf, preparing to leave, "Now she brings back an old friend just after lunch who's clearly having money troubles because of her recent trip to India. Wasn't too hard to put it all together."

"How did you know I had been to India?" I asked.

The woman ignored me, looking at her phone. "I've had my eye on a nice little place in central London," she said, "We should be able to afford it together. Meet me there tomorrow night at 7:00. Sorry, gotta run. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary."

I could not even begin to describe the many things that were running though my head at that moment. "Hold on!" I called after her before she could leave, "Is that it?"

"Is that what?" she asked.

"We've only just met and we're going to go look at a flat?"

She did not seem to see any fault in this. "Problem?"

I looked her squarely in her foggy blue eyes. Yes, there was a problem. There were many problems. For instance: "We don't know a thing about each other. I don't know where we're meeting. In fact, I don't even know your name."

The woman squared her eyes. "I know you're a doctor who recently took a trip to India to take your mind off of your accident. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you, but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him, possibly because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp is psychosomatic, quite correctly I'm afraid."

She raised her eyebrows. "That's enough to be going off with, don't you think?"

She started to walk out the door, but quickly poked her head back in. "My name is Shirley Holmes and the address in 221B Baker Street. Afternoon!"

With that, she stuck on some large, round, black sunglasses and disappeared.

There aren't many instances in life where I'm left speechless, without even a thought of what I could have said. However, this was one of those moments. I just stared, stunned, at the door then looked at Michelle.

"Yeah," Michelle said, "She's always like that."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_More to come. Reviews are always welcome! :)_


	3. 221B Baker Street

To be perfectly honest, I did not know what to think of Shirley Holmes at all. I mean, she had left me completely dumbfounded and not many people are capable of doing that.

As I sat on my bed that night, I thought about our encounter. How did she know so much about me? I was so baffled that at the moment, vampire did not seem too far off in my book. Obviously this Shirley Holmes brought up a question that I did not know the answer to. And what do people do when they don't know the answer nowadays? They look it up on the internet.

And that's just what I did.

I pulled out my computer and typed "Shirley Holmes" into the search engine. There weren't many decent results, but one caught my eye and I clicked on it.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The next night, I managed to find the address that Shirley Holmes had given me, on Baker Street. 221B was printed in gold across the top of the door. It was a nice spot. A really nice spot, and I wondered for a moment why she would have picked such a spot when there were others that were clearly cheaper.

My potential flatmate was nowhere to be seen when I arrived, so I hit the golden knocker against the door a few times.

"Hello," came a voice from behind me.

I turned and saw Shirley Holmes getting out of a cab. She paid the driver and walked with her swagger up beside me. I held my hand out to her. "Ms. Holmes," I addressed her in a neighborly fashion.

"Call me Shirley, please," she said, shaking my hand.

She wore a different outfit than yesterday, though it was still predominately black and even though it was overcast, she still wore her large sunglasses.

"Well, this is a prime spot," I remarked, "It must be expensive."

"Ah, Mr. Hudson, the landlord, has given me a special deal. He owes me a favor," Shirley told me, "A few years ago, his wife got herself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help him out."

"So, you stopped his wife from being executed?" I asked.

"Oh no. I ensured it." Shirley smiled smugly.

Before I could respond, the door suddenly opened. A short elderly man stood in the doorway. My first impression of his appearance was, fatherly. Or rather, grandfatherly since he was probably old enough to be my grandfather. He wore a purple plaid shirt with dark green corduroy slacks and brown loafers. Despite his aged appearance, wrinkled face, and balding head, his remaining hair still retained its natural dark blonde color.

He grinned pleasantly at us and stretched his frail arms out to Shirley. "Shirley!" he greeted her warmly, wrapping her up in a hug.

When she pulled away, Shirley gestured to me at her side. "Mr. Hudson, this is Dr. Jennifer Watson."

Mr. Hudson smiled at me and beckoned us to come inside. I followed Shirley inside and Mr. Hudson closed the door behind us. Once inside, Shirley practically ran up the stairs that greeted us right at the front. I wished to follow suite, but my leg and limp prevented me from doing so and was left to hobble up behind her.

She waited patiently for me at the top, her hand resting on the doorknob that led into the flat. Once I finally reached the top, she opened the door. That's when I saw, for the first time, the interior of 221B Baker Street.

The first room was a sitting room. Two chairs were already present, along with several lamps, and a table. I noticed immediately that the room was cluttered with boxes filled with all kinds of rubbish. All sorts of random objects sat around on the mantle, on the bookshelf, on the table and chairs, cluttering up the room. I decided that it must have belonged to the previous owner who was in the process of moving out.

The second room was the kitchen. It seemed to have been converted into some kind of laboratory. A microscope, test tubes of all sizes, petri dishes, and jars filled with who knows what sat on the table. I decided that the laboratory also belonged to the previous owner. What on earth did this person do?

However, I could see that beneath all the rubbish, it seemed a very comfortable flat. It had a rather homely feel to it. I nodded in approval. "Well... I think this could be very nice," I told Shirley.

"Yes," Shirley agreed, removing her sunglasses and scarf, looking around the flat, "I think so too."

"As soon as all this rubbish is cleared out..." I started to say.

"So I went ahead and moved in..." Shirley said simultaneously.

We both trailed off awkwardly and stared at each other for a moment. She owned everything sitting on the furniture and in the boxes. Whoops. I wasn't sure how she was going to take my comment about her things being "rubbish". If she took it badly, it was not a sure fire way to start off if we were going to be flatmates.

"Um, well uh, obviously I can, um..." Shirley began grabbing random objects off the furniture and tried her best to to make them look tidy, "...straighten things up a bit."

She picked up several pieces of paper that had fallen off a chair and organized them into a stack then set them on the mantle and jabbed a letter opener into them as well as the mantle to keep them in place. I hoped that the landlord wouldn't mind the hole in the mantle.

I then noticed something else sitting on the mantle. I pushed my long, sandy hair out of my face to get a better look. Nope, my eyes weren't deceiving me. "That's a skull," I remarked, pointing.

It was. A real, human skull, just sitting on the mantle as if it were some sort of typical decoration like a clock or picture frame.

"An old friend of mine," Shirley said casually, throwing it a glance, still tidying up the room, "Well... I say friend."

I was going to say something else, like why on earth would she have a skull sitting on the mantle, or who this friend was, or something along those lines, but just then, Mr. Hudson entered and addressed me.

"So what do you think, Dr. Watson?" he asked, "There's another bedroom upstairs. That is, if you'll be needing two bedrooms."

What? "Umm... yes? We will be needing two," I said, confused.

"Oh, don't you worry, my dear," Mr. Hudson said, raising both his hands almost defensively, "There's all sorts around here. Mrs. Turner next door has a married pair."

It was then that the penny dropped and I realized what he meant. Two young women living together in a flat, surely that would raise questions about our relationship. Oh dear...

"Oh, Shirley! You've already made such a mess!" Mr. Hudson scolded Shirley as he walked into the kitchen and saw the clutter on the table.

Shirley ignored the remark and proceeded to remove her overcoat and then pull her laptop out of one of the boxes and set it on the table. I moved some of her things off one of the chairs and lowered myself onto the cushion, watching her. Somehow, I had to make conversation with her.

"I looked you up on the internet last night," I told her.

This caught her attention enough for her to face me. "Did you find anything interesting?"

Interesting is a very versatile word. I remembered the one thing I found during my search the previous evening. "Well, I found your website," I said, ""The Science of Deduction", I believe?"

This sparked a small smile on her lips, heavily applied with crimson lipstick. "And..?" she asked, hopefully.

I gave her a skeptical look. I had read some very outrageous things on that site. She had almost sounded like some sort of pathological liar or something. Her smile faltered some and she looked at me questioningly.

"Let's see, you said that you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by... what was it, his left thumb?"

"Yes," Shirley stated simply, sticking her hands into her pockets, "And I could tell that you had been to India because of your face and wrist. And I could read your brother's drinking habits in your mobile phone."

I raised my eyebrows. I still wanted an explanation for that little display. "How?" I wondered.

Shirley did not answer and simply turned back to her computer. Mr. Hudson walked back into the room, looking at a newspaper. "So, what about all these suicides, Shirley?" he asked, pointing to an article, "I thought for sure you'd be hopping right on that. It seems right up your street. Three exactly the same."

Shirley was suddenly looking out the window at something. "Four," she said, "There's just been a fourth. But there's something different this time."

Just then, I heard some quick footsteps coming up the stairs. Everyone turned to see a professionally dressed middle-aged woman with graying hair pulled back in a ponytail, standing in the doorway, hand on her hip, looking directly at Shirley.

"Where?" Shirley asked her.

"Brixton, Lauriston Gardens," the older woman responded.

"What's new about this one?" Shirley asked, "You wouldn't have come to get me if there wasn't something different."

"Well, none of the other ones have left notes before, and this one did," the woman said, "Will you come?"

Shirley puckered her lips, thinking. "Who's on forensics?"

The woman sighed. "Anderson."

Shirley frowned and shook her her head. "Anderson won't work with me," she grumbled.

"You don't need to work with any of them. Not even Anderson," the woman told her.

"But I need an assistant!" Shirley protested.

The woman sighed again. "Will you come?"

"Yes. But not in a police car, I'll follow."

The woman nodded graciously. "Thank you." She turned and left the room.

As soon as the door slammed downstairs, Shirley grinned and clapped her hands together. "Brilliant! Ah, yes!" she cried, jumping up and down in place still clapping her hands together like an excited little school girl, "Four serial suicides and now a note! Oh, I couldn't be happier if it were Christmas!"

She stopped jumping and began to pull on her coat and scarf. "Mr. Hudson, I'll probably be back late. So I might need some food."

"I'm your landlord, Shirley. I don't do your cooking," Mr. Hudson said.

"Something cold will be fine," Shirley said, wrapping her scarf around her neck, "Jen, you just make yourself at home. Have a cup of tea or something. Don't wait up!"

With that she headed out the door. Mr. Hudson smiled and shook his head. "Just look at her dashing about," he said to me, "My wife was just like that. But, you're the sitting down kind of girl, I can tell."

I looked like the sitting down type of a girl? I absolutely _hated_ sitting down. I wanted to be up and about like Shirley, like I once was. And if I was starting to look like I enjoyed sitting down just because I did it so much... well, that was just too much for me to handle.

"I'll make you that cuppa. You just rest your leg," Mr. Hudson said.

His last comment was just the straw that broke the camel's back. I snapped. "Blast my leg!" I hollered. Mr. Hudson jumped at my outburst and I immediately tried to compose myself. "Sorry," I apologized, anger still bubbling inside me, "I am so, so sorry. It's just that, sometimes..."

Mr. Hudson nodded, understanding. "It's alright. I understand, my dear. I've got a bad back, myself."

"A cup of tea would be nice, thanks," I said, calming myself completely.

"Just this once. Like I said, don't do your cooking," Mr. Hudson said.

"A couple of biscuits too, if you have some," I said, disregarding his protests almost as easily as Shirley had.

"I don't do your cooking," Mr. Hudson repeated.

He left the room, presumably to go make me a cup of tea. I picked up the newspaper he had brought in earlier and began to read the article he had referenced.

It talked about how three people had all committed suicide within a four month span, each killing themselves with the same poison, and found in unusual places where they had absolutely no reason to be. Because of these similarities, the suicides were declared linked by the police. The police said that they were clearly suicides and not murders because the poison was obviously self-administered. I looked at the picture of the head detective on the case and saw that it was the woman who was just in our flat who came to retrieve Shirley. "Detective Inspector Lestrade" the inscription said.

"You're a doctor?" a voice came from the doorway, "You worked in the ER, yes?" I looked up from the paper. Shirley had returned and was now standing in the doorway, pulling on her black, leather gloves.

I put the paper down, grabbed my cane and stood up. "Yes," I said.

"Any good?" Shirley wondered.

I nodded. "Very good."

"I suppose you've seen a lot of injuries then?" Shirley inquired, moving a bit closer, "Violent deaths, maybe?"

"Yes."

"A bit of trouble too, right?"

"Yes. Enough for a lifetime," I replied, "Way too much."

Shirley stared at me for a moment. "Do you want to see some more?"

"Do I ever!"

Shirley smiled and I followed her out the door and down the stairs. I called to Mr. Hudson. "Sorry, Mr. Hudson, I'll skip the tea. I'm going out."

"You both are?" Mr. Hudson asked, coming around the stairs.

Shirley turned around to face the little old man. "Impossible suicides? Four of them?" she asked, "Why sit at home when there's something so fun going on?"

She happily squeezed Mr. Hudson in a hug. Mr. Hudson chuckled. "Look at you all happy," he said, "It's not decent."

"Who cares about decent?" Shirley cried, grinning, "The game is on!"

She put on her sunglasses and marched out the door with me following close behind.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_I'm so sorry about changing some iconic lines, but I don't swear. Neither in speaking nor in writing, so I apologize. _

_But anyway, I'll be beyond happy if you review! It just makes my day. More is on the way! :D_


	4. Lauriston Gardens

Shirley flagged down a taxi outside the flat and soon we were off. We drove for probably a good fifteen or twenty minutes in silence before I started to get curious. Actually, that's an understatement. I expected my companion to start explaining exactly what was going on, like where we were going and what we were supposed to be doing, but she didn't. She just sat in silence, deeply engrossed with her phone.

I began braiding my hair, throwing her an occasional questioning glance. I reached the end of my thick, shoulder length hair and bound it with a rubber band I had around my wrist before she finally noticed my questioning stare.

She put her phone down. "OK. You've got questions," she said.

"Yeah," I replied. Where to begin. There were so many swirling in my head. "Where are we going?" I asked.

"Crime scene," Shirley stated, "Next?"

That was not very helpful, but I decided not to press for details and asked the next one. The one that had been in my head almost since I first met her and especially since I had seen her random belongings in the flat, as well as being called upon by the police and such.

"Who are you?" I wondered, "What exactly is it that you do?"

"What do you think?" Shirley asked.

Well, Mr. Hudson had thought that the case of the linked suicides would be "right up her street", but she definitely wasn't with the police. She sure did have some very detective-like qualities, but somehow she didn't quite fit my deduction completely.

"Well, I'd say private detective..." I said slowly.

"But?" Shirley encouraged.

"But the police don't go to private detectives," I said.

Shirley smiled. "Yes. That's because I'm not a private detective. I'm a consulting detective. And I fancy I'm the only one in the world, I invented the job."

"Consulting...? What does that mean?" I wondered.

"It means when the police are out of their depths, which is always, they consult me," she replied with a small smirk.

Now that sounded a bit outrageous to me. "But the police don't consult amateurs," I said, thinking she was just joking with me.

However the look she threw me, told me she was not. She raised her eyebrow then looked back ahead. "When we first met yesterday, I asked you how you enjoyed your trip to India and you looked surprised," she said.

"Yeah. I'm still wondering how you knew that," I told her.

"I didn't know. I saw," Shirley replied, "Your comment when you first entered the room said trained at Bards, so you're a doctor, obviously. Your face is tanned, but no tan above the wrists. You've been abroad, but not sunbathing. Then that bracelet you were wearing, it was recently purchased and very distinctly from India."

"How did you know about the accident?" I wondered.

"You're looking for a flat-share, you wouldn't have wasted money on such an expensive trip unless it was to get your mind off of something. Something traumatic probably. Your limp's really bad when you walk, but you don't ask for a chair and you stand like you've forgotten about it so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. An accident most likely."

"You said I had a therapist?"

"You have a psychosomatic limp. Of course you've got a therapist," Shirley replied. She reached into my coat pocket and removed my phone. "Then there's your brother. Your phone is expensive, email-enabled mp3 player. Like I said before, you're looking for a flat-share, you wouldn't waste money on this, so it's a gift. There are scratches, not one, several. It's been in the same pocket as keys and coins and such. The woman sitting next to me wouldn't treat her one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. The next bit's easy, you know it already."

She was right. I did know it. "The engraving?"

Shirley turned the phone over to reveal said engraving. "_Harry Watson, From Clara XXX_"

""Harry Watson". Clearly a family member who's given you his old phone," Shirley said, "Not your father, this is a young man's gadget. Could be a cousin, but you're a doctor who can't find a place to live. Unlikely you've got an extended family, certainly not one you're close to, so brother it is. Now "Clara". Who's Clara? Three kisses says it's a romantic attachment. Expensive phone says wife, not girlfriend. She must have given it to him recently, this model is only six months old. Marriage in trouble then, six months old he's just given it away. If she'd left him, he would've kept it. People do, sentiment. No, he wanted rid of it. He left her. He gave the phone to you, that says he wanted you to stay in touch. You're looking for cheap accommodation, but you're not going to your brother for help. That says you've got problems with him. Could be several reasons why, such as, you don't like his drinking."

OK, so far she had blown my mind beyond belief, but she had explained it logically enough for me. But I could not see how there was any way she could possibly know about the drinking problem. "How can you possibly know about the drinking?" I asked.

She smirked slightly. "Shot in the dark," she replied simply, "A good one though. Power connection will tell you. Tiny little scuff marks around the edges. Every night he goes to plug it in to charge, but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone, never see a drunk's without them. There you go, you see? You were right."

I nodded. "I was right," I agreed. Wait... what was I right about? "Right about what?" I asked.

"The police don't consult amateurs," Shirley stated. She handed me back my phone.

I stared at the phone, dumbfounded. How in the world had she been able to deduce all that from just looking at a few details? The same details I saw everyday of my life and would never have made those connections in a million years. It was beyond impressive.

"That... was amazing," I told her.

She was silent for a moment, comprehending my words. "You think so?" she asked, sounding genuinely surprised.

Did I think so? Of course! "It was extraordinary!" I said, "It was beyond extraordinary."

"Hmm. Well, that's not what people normally say," Shirley said thoughtfully.

"What do people normally say?" I asked.

""Piss off"," Shirley replied, smirking.

I chuckled in return.

We reached our destination shortly thereafter. Shirley paid the cab driver and we began to walk towards the crime scene. Or rather, I followed Shirley towards the crime scene since I had no idea where we were or where we were going.

"Did I get anything wrong?" Shirley asked me.

Well, actually... "Harry and me don't get along," I told her, "Never have. Clara and Harry split up about three months ago and now they're getting a divorce. And Harry is a drinker."

Shirley nodded and almost looked surprised. "Spot on? Hmm. I didn't expect to be right about everything."

But I wasn't finished. "Harry is short for Harriet," I informed her.

Shirley stopped walking abruptly. "Harry is your sister," she mumbled, frowning.

It was then that it dawned on me that I really didn't know what my purpose in coming was. I remembered wanting to do something active, but why did I come with Shirley? "So what exactly am I doing here?" I asked Shirley as we began to walk again.

"Sister!" Shirley was reprimanding herself, not paying my concerns any attention.

"No seriously," I said, "Why am I here?"

"There's always something," Shirley continued, still not listening to me.

We reached the edge of the crime scene where some caution tape had been set up around the perimeter. A woman with long dark curly hair and dark skin, holding a radio stood by the tape.

"Hello, freak," she greeted Shirley casually.

"I'm here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade," Shirley stated.

"Why?" the curly-haired woman asked.

Shirley frowned at her. "I was invited," she said simply.

"Why?" the woman asked icily.

"I can't be sure, but I think she might want be to take a look," Shirley replied sarcastically, in the same icy tone.

"Well you know what I think, don't you?"

"Always, Sally," Shirley replied, slipping under the tape. She suddenly paused beside Sally and puckered her lips thoughtfully. "Didn't make it home last night, Sally?"

Sally didn't answer because I suddenly began to follow Shirley under the tape. Sally held her had out to stop me. "Wait, who's this?" she asked Shirley.

"Just a colleague of mine, Dr. Watson," Shirley responded, "Dr. Jennifer Watson, Sergeant Sally Donovan... old friend."

A smirk crept over Sally's face. "A colleague?" she repeated, amused, "How do _you_ get a colleague?" She turned to me. "What? Did she follow you home or something?"

More and more by the minute, I felt I would just be a nuisance and this sergeant was not helping at all. "Would it be better if I just waited...?" I started to ask.

"No," Shirley said firmly, raising the tape so I could walk under.

Sally rolled her eyes. "Freak is here," she said into her radio, "I'm bringing her in."

She started walking towards the building that had police officers swarming in and out of it. Shirley and I followed behind her. When we reached the entrance to the building, we were greeted by a medium height man with dark hair and close set eyes, wearing a blue crime scene jumpsuit.

"Ah, Anderson," Shirley greeted him in an almost pleasant tone, "And how are we this evening?"

He was scowling at her, but I did notice that his eyes flitted up and down over her and her curves briefly. He crossed his arms. "This is a crime scene, Holmes," he said sternly, "I don't want it contaminated. Are we clear?"

"As crystal," Shirley replied lightly, "And is your wife away for long?"

"Oh don't pretend you worked that out," Anderson sneered, "Somebody told you that."

"Your deodorant told me that," Shirley replied.

"My deodorant?" Anderson asked, confused.

"It's for men," Shirley said simply.

Anderson scoffed. "Well of course it's for men! I'm wearing it!"

"Yes. And so is Sergeant Donovan."

Everyone turned and looked at Sally in shock, Anderson looking a bit more horrified than everyone else. I tried to suppress the smirk that was threatening to show on my face.

"Hmm, and I think it just vaporized," Shirley said, sniffing the air, "May I go in now?"

"OK, now whatever you're trying to imply here..." Anderson said, recovering.

"Oh, I'm not implying anything at all," Shirley said casually as she walked around Anderson towards the door, "I'm sure Sally just came over to your place for a nice little chat or something and just happened to stay over, right? And I assume she scrubbed your floors, judging by the state of her knees."

Throwing him a final self-satisfied smile, Shirley disappeared into the house. I followed after her, avoiding the eyes of both Sally and Anderson.

Shirley and I headed into the interior of the house and soon met up with Detective Inspector Lestrade who was pulling on one of the blue jumpsuits over her street clothes, herself.

Shirley picked up one of the jumpsuits from a nearby pile and handed it to me. "Here. You should wear one of these," she said.

"Who's this?" Lestrade asked, gesturing to me.

"She's with me," was all Shirley replied as I took the jumpsuit and started to pull it on over my jeans and jumper.

"I can see that, but who is she?" Lestrade asked.

"I said she's with me," Shirley repeated more firmly. The inspector decided to drop the subject and I decided that I didn't mind not being properly introduced to her.

Shirley removed her own black leather gloves and began pulling on a pair of white spandex ones. I noticed that she did not even seem to be making any move for one of the jumpsuits and I began to wonder if she was going to put one on at all. She would have to, wouldn't she? I mean, she was going into a crime scene to look at evidence, right?

"Aren't you going to put one on?" I asked her, pointing to the pile of jumpsuits.

Shirley just looked at me without answering, then turned back to Lestrade. "So where are we?" Shirley asked.

"Upstairs," Lestrade replied.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Well, I decided to not switch EVERYBODY'S gender around. I thought about switching around Sally and Anderson, but eventualy decided against it. Sooooo... what do you all think? Reviews are very welcome! More coming soon! _


	5. Pink!

First off, I think I should describe this house we were in. It was like one of those houses you saw in ghost films with the rickety old staircases that spiraled upwards for what seemed like an eternity, peeling paint on the walls and ceiling, ancient broken furniture everywhere, cobwebs and dust settled over every inch of the place, mold and mildew leaking through the walls and floors. Clearly this house had been around for a while. It gave me the shivers just walking through it and the eerie light cast from the florescent lights set up by the police didn't help much.

"I can give you two minutes," Lestrade told Shirley as she led us up the spiraling staircase.

"Might need longer," Shirley said.

"Her name is Jenny Wilson according to her credit cards," Lestrade explained, "We're running them now for contact details. She hasn't been here for very long. Some kids found her."

We continued up the stairs for several flights until the inspector finally led us into a room on like the third floor. Inside, in the center of the room, was a woman lying face down on the floor. I stared at her, not really sure what to think. I was staring at a dead woman. I had seen dead people before, lots of times in fact. But somehow, looking at the woman on the floor in that room struck me differently than all the other times before.

Shirley was eyeing the mass of pink lying in the middle of the room, then she suddenly turned to Lestrade, frowning. "Shut up."

Lestrade was caught off guard. "I didn't say anything," she protested.

"You were thinking and it's annoying," Shirley said.

Lestrade glanced at me, but I had no comment or really any sort of reaction for her. Clearly, Shirley was not one for subtly when it came to her annoyance with others. And it didn't help that she was a rather blunt person.

Lestrade and I looked back at Shirley and saw that she was staring at the pink-garbed body in deep concentration. She took a step closer and stared at the woman's hand which laid sprawled next to a word scratched into the wooden floor "_RACHE_". Shirley stared at the word briefly, then crouched down next to the body. She delicately swiped two of her fingers over the woman's coat and then studied her fingers for a moment before then running them under the dead woman's coat collar and studying her finger tips again. She reached into the woman's coat pocket and pulled out a small white umbrella and swiped her fingers over that as well.

She then reached into her own coat pocket and pulled out, what looked like, a small magnifying glass. She began inspecting the woman's jewelry, piece by piece. I could not imagine what she could possibly determine by looking at them, but she carried on. She was especially interested in the woman's ring which she removed and turned over in her fingers a few times before replacing. Finally, she gave a small smile.

"Do you have something?" Lestrade asked.

Shirley stood up and started to remove the spandex gloves she was wearing, still smiling. "Not much," she replied.

"She's German," came a voice from behind.

Anderson stood in the doorway. ""Rache"," he continued, "It's German for "revenge". She could be trying to-"

But Shirley promptly walked over and shut the door in his face whilst fiddling with her phone. "Yes, thank you for your input," she said blandly.

"So she's German?" Lestrade asked.

"Of course she's not, but she _is_ from out of town," Shirley said, still fiddling on her phone, "She intended to stay in London for one night before returning home to Cardiff. So far, so obvious."

Umm, what? So far, so lost. "Sorry, obvious?" I asked.

"Dr. Watson, what do you think?" Shirley asked.

"About the message?" I wondered.

"About the body. You're a medical woman," Shirley said.

"Wait, we have a whole team right outside," Lestrade protested.

"They won't work with me," Shirley stated simply.

"I'm breaking every rule letting you in here," Lestrade said.

"Yes, because you need me."

Lestrade stared at Shirley for a moment, sourly. Then sighed. "Yes, I do. Heaven help."

Shirley turned back to me at the side, where I had been standing awkwardly during the whole of their argument. "Dr. Watson," Shirley said, gesturing to the pink woman.

I didn't want to do anything unofficially, so I glanced at Lestrade for permission.

"Oh, just do as she says. Help yourself," Lestrade said, rolling her eyes.

She turned and left the room, ordering everyone to stay out of the room for a couple minutes. Meanwhile, I moved forward and crouched down next to the body, setting my cane aside. Shirley joined me.

"Well?" Shirley asked.

For the last time, I did not see any point in my presence whatsoever and tried to bring it up again. "What am I doing here?"

"Helping me make a point," Shirley responded, keeping her voice low.

"I'm supposed to be helping you pay the rent," I pointed out.

"But this is more fun," Shirley said.

Well, she certainly had a funny definition of fun. "Fun?" I repeated, "There's a woman lying dead."

Shirley nodded. "Yes. That is a perfectly sound analysis, but I was hoping you'd go a bit deeper."

Well, since I was here, I decided there was no harm in helping. As I began my own inspection, Inspector Lestrade reentered the room. I checked for the obvious signs, smelling, checking her skin tone, and so on.

My analysis did not last long, only a few seconds, and I soon straightened up again. "It was probably asphyxiation," I informed the two live women in the room, "Passed out, choked on her own vomit. I can't smell any alcohol on her though, so it could have been a seizure or possibly drugs..."

Shirley was staring intently at me. "You know what it was. You've read the papers."

I thought back the the article I had read earlier. "She's one of the suicides? The fourth?" I asked, hesitantly.

"Shirley, I said two minutes," Lestrade interrupted us, "Give me anything you've got."

"The victim is in her late thirties," Shirley stated, "Professional person judging by her clothes. Probably something in the media going by the rather alarming shade of pink. She travelled from Cardiff today, intended to stay in London for one night, which is obvious from the size of her suitcase."

Lestrade looked around confused. "Suitcase?"

"Yes," Shirley carried on, "She's been married for at least ten years, but not happily. She's had a string of lovers, but none of them knew she was married."

Lestrade (as well as I) stared at her in disbelief. "For goodness sake! If you're just making this up-" Lestrade warned.

"Her wedding ring is at least ten years old," Shirley explained, "The rest of her jewelry's been regularly cleaned, but not her wedding ring. That tells you the state of her marriage right there. The inside of the ring is shinier than the outside, that means it's regularly removed. The only polishing it gets is when she works it off her finger. She doesn't take it off for work, look at her nails. She doesn't work with her hands, so what, or rather _who_ does she remove her rings for? Obviously not one lover, she would never be able to sustain the fiction of being single over that amount of time, so more likely a string of them. Simple."

For the umpteenth time that day, I was completely dumbfounded. "That's brilliant," I said, without really thinking.

Shirley paused and looked at me, surprised.

"Sorry," I said.

"Cardiff?" Lestrade raised the question that I also had.

"Well, isn't it obvious?" Shirley asked.

"It's not obvious to me," I said.

Shirley wrinkled her brow. "Dear, what is it like in your funny little brains? It must be so boring," she mumbled, "Her coat, it's slightly damp. She's been in heavy rain in last few hours. There's been no rain anywhere in London in that time. It's damp under her coat collar as well. She's turned it up against the wind. She's got an umbrella in her left-hand pocket, but it's dry and unused. So, not just wind, strong wind. Too strong to use her umbrella. We know from her suitcase that she was intending to stay overnight, so she must have come a decent distance, but she couldn't have come more than two or three hours because her coat still hasn't dried. So, where has there been heavy rain and strong wind within the radius of that travel time?"

She pulled out her phone and displayed her research to us. "Cardiff," she stated.

Well, I was impressed. "That's fantastic," I said.

"Do you know you do that out loud?" Shirley muttered to me.

I was suddenly slightly embarrassed by my lack of control over my mouth. "Sorry, I'll shut up."

"No... it's fine."

"So, why do you keep saying suitcase?" Lestrade asked from behind us.

Shirley turned away from me and began looking around the room, searching for something. "Yes, where is it? She must've had a phone or an organizer or something. Find out who Rachel is."

"She was writing "Rachel"?" Lestrade wondered.

"No, she was leaving a random angry note in German," Shirley said sarcastically, "Of course she was writing "Rachel"! The question is, why did she wait until she was dying to write it?"

Lestrade had crossed her arms after Shirley's sarcastic remark and frowned slightly. "How do you know she had a suitcase?" she asked.

"The back of her right leg," Shirley said, pointing to the dead woman's calf, "Tiny splash marks on the heel and calf, none on the left. She was dragging a wheeled suitcase behind her with her right hand. You don't get that splash pattern any other way. I'd say it was a smallish case, going by the spread. A case this size, woman this clothes-conscious, it could only be an overnight bag. So we know she was only staying one night. Now where is it? What have you done with it?"

"There wasn't a case," Lestrade said.

Shirley, who had bent down and started inspecting the dead woman's pink shoe slowly looked up at the inspector. "Say that again," she said.

"I said there wasn't a case," Lestrade repeated, "There was _never_ any suitcase."

Shirley leapt to her feet and rushed out the door. "Did anybody find a suitcase!" she called, "A suitcase! Was there a suitcase anywhere in this house!"

Lestrade followed after her with me close behind. "Shirley! I'm telling you, there wasn't any case!"

Shirley turned to look at us. "They take the poison themselves! They chew and swallow the pills themselves!" she said quickly, "There are clear signs that even you lot couldn't miss!"

She began quickly making her way down the spiral staircase. "Right. Thank you very much," Lestrade mumbled sarcastically, "And!"

"It's murder," Shirley said, stopping on the stairs and looking up at us, "All of them. I don't know how. But they're not suicides, they're killings. Serial killings."

She grinned and clapped her hands together repeatedly. "We've got ourselves a serial killer. I love those. There's always something to look forward to."

"Why do you say that?" Lestrade wondered as Shirley began hurrying down the stairs again.

Shirley stopped again. "Her case! Come on, where is her case? Did she eat it or something? Someone else was here and took her case!" Shirley began mumbling to herself, but was still audible to us above, "So the killer must've driven her here... and then forgotten the case was in the car."

"She could have checked into her hotel and then left her case there," I suggested.

"Nope. She never got to the hotel," Shirley said, "I mean, just look at her hair. She color coordinates her lipstick and her shoes, she never would have left any hotel with her hair still looking..."

She suddenly stopped mid-sentence and stared ahead, eyes wide. "Oh..." she whispered. Then her entire face lit up as she suddenly realized something. "Oh!" she cried, clapping her hands together again.

"Shirley?" I asked.

"What? What is it?" Lestrade asked, leaning over the banister.

"Serial killers are always hard," Shirley said, "You have to wait for them to make a mistake."

"But we can't just wait!" Lestrade cried.

"We're all done waiting!" Shirley said, "Really look at her! Houston, we have a mistake!"

She started running down the stairs once more, all the while shouting instructions up at Lestrade. "Get on to Cardiff! Find out who Jenny Wilson's family and friends are. And find Rachel!"

"Right, of course. But what mistake!" Lestrade called after her as she disappeared.

Shirley reappeared momentarily. "PINK!" she hollered.

Then she disappeared once more.


	6. Kidnapped

Naturally, I could not prance down the stairs as Shirley did and had to follow in a much slower, more painful fashion. Police officers did not even seem to notice me as they rushed up and down the stairs past me, forcing me into the banister every time.

I finally reached the bottom, removed the blue jumpsuit, and made it outside. Shirley was nowhere to be seen. Where would she have gone? I walked further out, scanning the area for a tall, pale woman dressed in all black.

"She's gone," a voice came from my side.

It was Sergeant Sally Donovan. I turned to her. "Shirley Holmes?" I asked.

"Yeah. She just took off. She does that," Sally replied.

Just my luck. The person who had brought me on this little escapade in the first place was gone and now I had to find my own way home. Wait.. where was I anyway? "Umm... sorry, where am I?" I asked Sally, who had turned back to talking to some other police officers.

"Brixton," she told me.

"Right. Do you know where I can get a cab?" I asked, "It's just that... well, my leg."

Sally glanced at my infirmity and then lifted the tape for me. "Try the main road," she suggested.

"Thanks," I said, moving under the tape.

"But you're not her friend," Sally said, making me turn back to face her, "She doesn't have friends. So who are you?"

I could only assume that "she" meant Shirley. I shrugged. "I'm no one. I just met her," I replied.

"OK, well just a bit of advice: stay away from that girl," Sally said.

"Why?" I asked, caught off guard by such a blunt warning.

Sally stared at me for a moment. "Do you know why she's here?" she asked, "She's not paid or anything. She _likes_ it. She gets off on it. The weirder the crime is, the more she gets off. And you know what? One day just showing up won't be enough. One day we'll be standing around a body and Shirley Holmes will be the one that put it there."

That wasn't really the impression that Shirley gave to me. "Why would she do that?"

"Because she's a psychopath," Sally replied, "And psychopaths get bored."

"Donovan!" Lestrade's voice called from behind us.

"I'm coming!" Sally said. She started walking towards her boss, but she looked back over her shoulder at me. "Stay away from Shirley Holmes," she warned.

I watched her walk away, slightly bewildered by such a warning. Sure, Shirley seemed a little strange and maybe her methods were a bit unorthodox, but she didn't seem dangerous to me. I frowned to myself and turned to start walking towards the main road.

As I walked past a telephone box, the phone began to ring. I glanced at it for a moment. Why would a public telephone be ringing. It seemed a bit odd. But then I checked my watch and realized how late it was and that I should probably be getting home as soon as possible. So I headed off and gave the ringing phone no more thought.

It did not take me too long to reach the main road, but I did not have much success in flagging down a cab. As I was sighing in frustration as another cab once again drove past me, I noticed a phone in a nearby shop ringing incessantly. I looked at it. Just as an employee went to answer it, it stopped ringing. Odd.

I moved on down the street. Just as I came up to a telephone booth, the phone started ringing. Completely puzzled by now, I stared at the box for a moment. Then I decided that I would answer it. I got into the telephone box, closing the door behind me, and answered the phone.

"Hello?" I asked cautiously.

"There is a security camera on the building to your left. Do you see it?" came a woman's drawling voice on the other end of the line.

I was beyond confused now. Was it a wrong number? How could it be a wrong number? This was in a telephone box! "Who is this?" I asked, "Who's speaking?"

"Do you see the camera, Dr. Watson?" the woman's voice asked evenly.

Well, so this call _was_ for me. I looked at the building to my left and spotted the security camera. "Yes. I see it," I said.

"Watch," the voice told me.

The camera began to turn until it was facing the opposite direction, away from me.

"There is another camera on the building opposite you," the voice said once the camera had stopped moving, "Do you see it?"

I looked and saw the camera. "Mm-hmm," I said.

The camera on the other building also turned until it was facing the opposite direction, away from me.

"And finally, at the top of the building on your right," the voice said.

I looked and saw the camera make the same movement as the other two before it.

I swallowed. Why was this happening? How was this happening? "How are you doing this?" I asked cooly.

"Get into the car, Dr. Watson," the voice ordered, "I would make some sort of threat, but I'm sure that your situation is quite clear to you."

I looked outside the telephone booth and saw a shiny black car drive up and stop just outside of it. A man got out and opened the back door and stared at me expectantly. I held the phone in my hand for several seconds, then nervously brushed my bangs out of my face. I didn't have a choice, I would have to get in the car. Best not show any fear though. I composed myself, hung up the phone, and walked out to the car.

I sat in the backseat with a rather attractive young man who never once looked away from me ever since I first got in the car. His eyes were boring holes into the side of my head. We drove for a long time, I can't put an estimate on it though, nor can I say where we were exactly since the windows were shaded. Every time I glanced at the young man beside me, he waggled his eyebrows. Finally, I got sick of it all and turned full on towards him.

"Hi," I said as calmly as possible, trying to keep the annoyance out of my voice.

"Hello," he said back, smiling.

What next? "So what's your name?" I asked.

"Umm... Anthony," he said, still grinning at me.

Right. "Is that your real name?" I asked.

He smirked. "Nope."

I nodded. "I'm Jen."

"Yes. I know," the man called Anthony said, scooting a bit closer to me.

I bit my lip uncomfortably. It wasn't everyday that I had one of my kidnappers start coming onto me. I ignored his grinning and tried to see out the tinted windows for the hundredth time. "Is there any point in me asking where I'm going?"

"None at all, Jen."

I nodded again. "OK."

And that was the end of all conversation for the rest of the trip. We still drove on for a good while longer before finally stopping. I was supposed to get out of the car here. I got out and found myself to be in some sort of abandoned warehouse.

Not far in front of me stood a middle-aged woman, probably close to 10 years older than I was. She was tall, lanky, and professionally dressed with her brown pinstriped coat and matching skirt, and dark blue blouse. Her dark brown hair was twisted back into a bun, leaving one thick curl hanging over her forehead. She was leaning casually against a large black umbrella that matched her extremely high, pointed heels. I could only assume that this was the woman I spoke to on the phone.

She gestured to a small chair sitting in front of her with the umbrella as I began to approach her. "Have a seat, Jen."

I held back my sour frown as I limped towards her, but I couldn't keep the sarcasm out of my voice as I spoke to her. "You know, I have a phone. I'm very clever and all, but you could just phone me... on my _phone_."

"When one is avoiding the attention of Shirley Holmes, one learns to be discreet. Hence this place," the woman said, "Your leg must be hurting you. Do sit down."

"I don't want to sit down," I said.

The woman eyed me for a moment. "You don't seem very afraid."

Well good, I was trying not to. "You don't seem very frightening," I retorted.

The woman let out a laugh. "Yes. Your bravery is impressive," she said, "Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think? What is your connection to Shirley Holmes?"

Why did everyone feel the need to ask me that? I shrugged. "I don't have one," I replied, "I barely know her. I met her... well, yesterday."

"Hmm, and since yesterday, you have moved in with her and now you're solving crimes together," the woman said, "Will we be expecting a happy announcement by the end of the week?"

Once again, I tried to keep myself from frowning. "Who are you?"

"Just an interested party."

"Interested in Shirley? Why?" I asked, "I'm guessing you're not friends."

"You've met her. How many friends do you think she has?" the woman asked. She sighed. "I suppose that I'm the closest thing to a friend that Shirley Holmes is capable of having."

"And what's that?"

"An enemy."

"An enemy?"

The woman smirked. "In her mind, certainly. If you were to ask her, she'd probably say her arch-enemy... She does love to be dramatic."

And this lady wasn't? I glanced around at the warehouse, refraining from rolling my eyes. "Well thank goodness that you're above all that," I said sarcastically.

Before either of us could say anything else, my phone suddenly beeped, receiving a text. I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out my phone to read the text. It was from Shirley: _"Baker Street. Come at once if convenient. SH"_.

"I hope I'm not distracting you," the woman said, watching me.

"Oh, no. Not at all," I said, putting the phone back in my pocket.

"Do you plan on continuing your association with Shirley Homes?" the woman asked.

"I could be wrong, but I don't think that's any of your business," I replied.

"It could be," the woman said, raising her eyebrow.

"It really couldn't."

"Well, if you do move into umm..." she reached into the small brown leather purse over her shoulder and pulled out a pocket book, then flipped open to a certain page, "221B Baker Street. I'd be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to ease your way."

I stared suspiciously at her. "Why?"

"Because you're not a wealthy woman."

"In exchange for...?"

"Information," the woman stated, "Nothing indiscreet. Nothing you'd feel uncomfortable with. You just need to tell me what she's up to, that's all."

"Why?"

"I worry about her... constantly.

"That's nice of you," I said dryly.

"But I would prefer for a number of reasons that my concern go unmentioned," the woman said, "We have what you might call a, uhh... difficult relationship."

Before I could say anything, my phone beeped again. I took it out and read the text. It was another one from Shirley. _"If inconvenient come anyway. SH"_.

I put the phone away. "No," I said flatly to the woman.

"But I haven't mentioned a figure yet," she said.

"There's no need," I said.

The woman laughed. "You're very loyal very quickly."

I wouldn't say that. Maybe I just had a strong moral fiber? Somehow, spying on someone for someone else who was clearly not on good terms with them just did not seem like a good idea. Especially when this woman in front of me could very well be some sort of villainous mastermind. I mean, she had kidnapped me for goodness sake!

"No I'm not," I said, "I'm just not interested."

The light of humor on the woman's face suddenly faded and she looked almost somber. She reached into her purse again and pulled out another little notebook. ""Trust issues"" she said, reading, "It says here."

I stared at the notebook. Those words sounded familiar. Too familiar. My therapist talked about my trust issues almost every time I went to see her. "What's that?" I asked quietly.

"Could it be you've decided to trust Shirley Holmes of all people?" the woman asked, still reading the notebook.

"Who says I trust her?" I asked, starting to get defensive. I couldn't keep up my cool act anymore. This woman had just hit a tender spot.

"You don't seem the type who makes friends very easily," the woman said.

"Are we done?" I asked tensely.

The woman finally looked up from the notebook. "You tell me."

I was done before we even got started. I frowned slightly then turned to make my way back to the car that I had arrived in.

"I'm sure that people have already warned you to stay away from her, but I can see from your left hand that's not going to happen."

I froze in my tracks. _What? _I turned back to her, scowling. "My what?"

"Show me," the woman said lightly.

I hesitated, but eventually held up my left hand for her to see. She approached me and held out her and hand to take my in hers. It pulled mine back. "Don't," I warned.

But she looked at me expectantly and kept her hand outstretched. I hesitantly held my hand back out and she gingerly took it, inspecting it closely for a moment.

"Remarkable," she muttered.

"What is?" I asked, annoyed, yanking my hand away.

"Most people blunder around this city and all they see are streets and shops and cars. When you walk with Shirley Holmes you see the battlefield. You've seen it already, haven't you?"

I breathed deeply, trying to control the different emotions bubbling up inside of me. "What's wrong with my hand?"

"You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand," the woman replied, "Your therapist thinks it's post-traumatic stress disorder. She thinks you're haunted by your memories of your car accident."

I was so close to growling, crying, and screaming all at the same time. "Who are you?" I demanded, using superhuman effort to keep my voice steady, "How do you know all that?"

"Fire her. She's got it wrong," the woman said in an annoyingly calm voice, "You're under stress right now and your hand is perfectly steady. Your hand doesn't tremble because of your memories, Dr. Watson. Your hand trembles because you miss your old pressured life."

She leaned closer to me, smiling slightly. "Welcome back," she whispered.

She stepped back and began to walk away, her heels clicking, swinging the umbrella as she went. "Time to choose a side, Dr. Watson."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_So what did you think of feminized Mycroft? Or what about Anthea/Anthony? I'd really like to know if I'm pleasing or disappointing in my choices. I have already chosen a female name for Mycroft, but you'll just have to wait :)_


	7. The Case

As soon as the woman disappeared, my phone suddenly beeped again. I took out it and read the text from Shirley: "Could be dangerous. SH".

The young man who called himself Anthony approached me. "I'm to take you home," he said.

I didn't move. I just stared at my hand that had the tremor. The woman had been right, after all, but how had she known? How had she gotten all that information about me?

"Address?" Anthony asked.

He finally broke me out of my thoughts. I turned around and started to walk towards the car. "Baker Street," I told him, making up my mind, "221B Baker Street. But I need to stop off somewhere first."

I had decided that, despite all the warnings against it, I was going to back to Baker Street. I had not decided if I was actually going to live there yet, but definitely being around Shirley and determining her character for myself would help me decide.

I gave the address for my old flat, which still contained all of my belongings. Now that I had been kidnapped, I had no idea what was still in store for me. Besides, I was planning on going back to Baker Street and Shirley had mentioned that it could be dangerous, so I planned on being prepared this time.

I opened the drawer in the one dresser in the room and shuffled through the clutter until I found my handgun. Yes, I owned a handgun. Like I said before, I did hunting for sport, so I know how to handle a gun. And ever since my parents died, I'll admit, I was a little uptight and kept the gun for security.

Now, I removed the gun and stuck it into my white purse (which I had also previously left at the flat) and walked back out to the car.

I was driven to Baker Street as desired. Just before I got out, I turned to Anthony- so-called. "Listen, about your boss. Is there any chance you could _not_ tell her that this is where I went?" I asked.

He nodded. "Sure."

I glanced at the phone in his hand. "You've already told her, haven't you?"

He nodded again. "Yeah."

I turned to get out of the car again, but he called me back. "Hey listen, Jen," he said, "I do get a lot of free time, you know."

I pursed my lips and nodded. "Oh do you?" I asked. He stared at me hopefully. Ha! Not in a million years, mate. I raised my eyebrows at him and grinned. "Bye," I said, and then shut the door.

I watched as the car drove away before entering the flat. When I came up the stairs, I found Shirley sprawled out on the sofa, one hand resting on her other forearm, eyes closed.

I stared at her half-worried, half suspicious. "What are you doing?"

She opened her eyes, but didn't look at me. "Nicotine patch," she replied airily, sliding her sleeve up to show me three patches stuck onto her forearm, "Helps me to think. It's impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London these days. Bad news for brainwork."

"Well it's a good new for breathing," I said.

"Ugh! Breathing," Shirley snorted, "Breathing's boring."

"Is that three patches?" I asked, although I could clearly see that it was. One was unhealthy enough, but three...

"It's quite a three patch problem," Shirley replied, putting her sleeve back in place and closing her eyes once more.

"Well?" I asked. Shirley made no response. "You asked me to come, I'm assuming it's important," I pressed.

Shirley opened her eyes again, snapping out of her reverie. "Oh yes! That's right. Can I borrow your phone?"

"My phone?" I repeated, wondering if I had heard her correctly.

"I don't want to use mine," Shirley said, "There's always a chance that my number will be recognized. It's on the website."

"Mr. Hudson has a phone," I pointed out.

"Yeah, but he's downstairs. I tried shouting, but he didn't hear me," Shirley replied.

And she couldn't be bothered to get up? "I was on the other side of London!" I said, annoyed.

"There was no hurry," Shirley replied.

I shook my head and frowned. I removed my phone from my purse and held it out to her. "Here," I said.

She had her eyes closed once again. She held out her hand without opening her eyes and I placed my phone in her palm. "So this is about the case, I'm assuming?" I asked.

"Her case," Shirley mumbled.

"Her case?"

"Her suitcase. Yes, obviously," Shirley said more loudly this time, "The murderer took her suitcase, first big mistake."

"OK, so what if he took her case?" I wondered.

"It's no use, there's no other way. We'll have to risk it," Shirley mumbled to herself. She held my phone out to me. "There's a number on my desk. I want you to send a text."

Really? This was what she needed me so desperately for? I pursed my lips. "You brought me here to send a text?" I asked, incredulous.

"Yes, a text. The number's on my desk," Shirley said, still holding out my phone.

She was being entirely serious. I shook my head once more in disbelief and went to retrieve the phone. However, before I went to look for the number on the desk, I peered out the window. After my encounter with that mysterious woman in the warehouse, I was suddenly very much on my toes and felt like we were being watched.

Shirley noticed me staring out the window. "What's wrong?" she wondered.

"I just met a friend of yours," I replied, scanning the street.

"A friend?" Shirley repeated, utterly confused, as if she had never heard of such a word.

"An enemy," I clarified.

"Oh," Shirley relaxed, "Which one?"

I looked back at her with an eyebrow raised. Just how many did she have? "Well, your archenemy, according to her," I said, "Do people have archenemies?"

"Did she offer you money to spy on me?" Shirley asked.

"Yes," I said.

"Did you take it?"

"No."

"Pity. We could have split the fee. Think it through next time."

Clearly, Shirley knew exactly who I was talking about, so I couldn't help but wonder who she was and how she managed to call public phone booths, control security cameras, and get a hold of my therapist's notes. "Who is she?" I asked.

"The most dangerous woman you have ever met and not my problem right now," Shirley replied quickly, "On my desk, the number."

I obviously wasn't going to get much out of Shirley right now while she was so caught up with this texting thing. I would have to ask her again later. I walked over to the desk and found a pice of paper with a name and number hastily written on it.

""Jenny Wilson"..." I read aloud, "Hang on. Wasn't that the dead woman?"

"Yes, that's not important. Just enter the number," Shirley said impatiently.

I obeyed and started to put the number into my phone. "Are you doing it?" Shirley asked.

"Yes," I replied.

"Have you done it?" Shirley asked, not even a second after my reply.

"Would you hold on!" I told her impatiently.

I finished inputing the number and waited for Shirley's next instructions. "Put in these words exactly," Shirley said, ""What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out. 22 Northumberland Street. Please come.""

"You blacked out?" I asked.

"What? No!" Shirley said, finally getting up and heading into the kitchen, "Type and send it. Quickly!"

I was almost finished. "What was the address again?"

"22 Northumberland Street. Hurry up!" Shirley said impatiently, coming back in.

As she reentered, I saw that she was holding a small pink suitcase. She pulled the chair out from under the desk and set the suitcase on top of it, then sat on one of the armchairs and proceeded to open the case.

I stared at the case. It clearly did not belong to Shirley. "That's... the pink lady's case. That's Jenny Wilson's case," I said slowly.

"Yes, obviously," Shirley replied, staring at the case intently. She noticed my questioning stare and rolled her eyes. "I guess I should mention that I didn't kill her."

"I never said you did," I said.

"Why not? Given the text I just had you send and the fact that I have her case, It's perfectly logical assumption."

"Do people usually assume you're the murderer?" I asked.

Shirley smirked. "Yes, every now and then."

I nodded and sat on the other armchair, the same one I had sat on earlier. "OK. How did you get this?"

"By looking," Shirley replied.

"Where?" I asked.

"The killer must have driven her to Lauriston Gardens," Shirley explained, "He could only keep her case by accident if it was in the car. Nobody could be seen with this case without drawing attention to themselves, especially a man, which is statistically more likely. So obviously he'd feel compelled to get rid of it the minute he noticed he still had it. Wouldn't have taken him more than five minutes to realize his mistake. So, I checked every back street wide enough for a car five minutes from Lauriston Gardens and anywhere you could dispose of a bulky object without being observed. It took me less than hour to find the right skip."

"You got all that because you realized that the case would be pink?" I asked, amazed.

"Well it had to be pink, obviously," Shirley said.

"Why didn't I think of that?" I berated myself. It seemed so obvious when she explained it.

"Because you're an idiot."

Excuse me?

Obviously my surprise at her extreme bluntness showed on my face because she waved her hand at me. "No, no, don't be like that. Almost everyone is," she said. She pointed to the case, "Now look, do you see what's missing?"

Still slightly annoyed, I shook my head. "How could I?"

"Her phone," Shirley said, "Where's her mobile phone? There was no phone on the body, there's no phone in the case. We know she had one. That's her number there, you just texted it."

"Well, maybe she left it at home," I suggested.

"She has a string of lovers and she's careful about it," Shirley said, "She never leaves her phone at home."

I was silent for a moment, until I wondered: "Why did I just send that text?" I asked.

"Well, the question is, where is her phone now?" Shirley said.

"She could have lost it," I suggested.

"Yes," Shirley agreed, "Or...?"

"The murderer? You think the murderer has the phone?" I asked.

"Maybe she left it when she left her case or maybe he took it from her for some reason," Shirley said, "Either way, the balance of probability is that the murderer has her phone."

"Wait, wait a minute. Sorry, what are we doing?" I asked, realizing, "Did I just text a murderer? What good will that do?"

My phone suddenly began to ring. I looked at the caller ID and saw that it was withheld. Shirley saw as well and the corners of her mouth turned up slightly.

"A few hours after his last victim, and he receives a text that could only be from her," Shirley said, "If anyone had just found that phone, they'd ignore a text like that, but the murderer... would panic!"

She quickly closed the pink suitcase and leapt to her feet. She grabbed her coat and buttoned it up before beginning to pull on her overcoat.

"Have you talked to the police?" I asked.

"Four people are dead, there's no time to talk to the police," Shirley replied.

"So why are you talking to me?"

"Mr. Hudson took my skull," Shirley said, looking forlornly at the mantle.

I looked at the mantle and saw that the skull was indeed missing. I frowned. "So I'm basically filling in for your skull?" I asked.

"Relax, you're doing fine," Shirley said good-humoredly, pulling on her gloves, "Well?"

"Well what?"

"Well you could just sit there and watch telly or whatever it is people do, or..."

I could see where she was going with this. "What, you want me to come with you?"

"I like company when I go out and I think better when I talk aloud. The skull just attracts attention," Shirley said, wrapping her scarf around her neck.

I smirked, thinking over everything that had happened over the past few hours. "Problem?" Shirley asked, obviously reading hesitation on my face.

"Yeah, Sergeant Donovan," I said.

"What about her?" Shirley asked, annoyed.

"She said you get off on this," I replied, "That you enjoy it."

Shirley smiled. "And I said "dangerous", and here you are."

With that, she gave me a smug grin and walked out of the room. I pursed my lips. She was right. I had come despite all the warnings against it, even her own. I picked up my cane and followed after her.


	8. Northumberland Street

_Apologies for taking so long on the update, but college life is not all puppy dogs and ice cream. But, I've conquered my busyness and have managed to write another chapter for you._

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Shirley led me down the street at a swift pace which I tried my best to keep up with. "Where are we going?" I asked.

"Northumberland Street," Shirley replied, "It's just a five minute walk from here."

"You really think he's stupid enough to go there?" I asked incredulously.

Shirley smiled to herself. "No. I think he's brilliant enough," she said, "I love the brilliant ones. They're always so desperate to get caught."

I wasn't quite sure what she meant by that. Did she know something I didn't. "Why?" I wondered.

"Appreciation," Shirley replied, "Applause. At long last, the spotlight. That's the frailty of genius, Jen. It needs an audience."

I glanced at the pale, black-clad, red-lipped woman beside me, the perfect example of what she had just described, and suddenly understood exactly what she meant. "Yeah," I simply said.

Shirley began circling around as she walked, looking all about the street. "This is his hunting ground," she said, "Right here in the heart of the city. Now that we know his victims were abducted, that changes everything. Because all of his victims disappeared from busy streets, crowded places, but nobody saw them go."

She bit her lip and squeezed her temples. "Come on, think! Who do we trust, even though we don't know them? Who passes unnoticed wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?"

I shrugged. "I don't know. Who?"

She shrugged back. "I don't have the slightest idea," she said almost nonchalantly. She suddenly made a sharp turn towards a cafe. "Hungry?"

As we entered the cafe, someone behind the counter seemed to recognize Shirley and pointed to a small table by the window with a reserved sign sitting on it. Shirley thanked him and sat at the table, on the chair that had the best vantage point for watching out the window. I sat in the other seat.

"22 Northumberland Street," Shirley said, removing her coat, her blue eyes locked on the street outside, "Keep your eyes on it."

"Well, he's not just going to ring the doorbell is he?" I commented, "He'd have to be mad."

"He has killed four people," Shirley reminded me.

I didn't really have a response to that and just looked down at the table.

Suddenly, a rather large man approached the table and extended his hand towards Shirley, grinning. "Shirley," he said, shaking her hand, "Anything on the menu. Whatever you want, free."

He handed both of us menus. "On the house for you and for your date."

"Do you want to eat?" Shirley asked me.

Hold on a second. Date? Did he think...? "I'm not her date," I said, not even realizing that Shirley had asked me anything.

"This woman got me off a murder charge," the man with the menus continued, not appearing to have heard me.

"This is Angelo," Shirley explained, looking out the window again, "Three years ago, I successfully proved to Lestrade at the time of a rather vicious triple murder, that Angelo was in a completely different part of town house-breaking."

"She cleared my name," Angelo declared happily.

"I cleared it a bit," Shirley said, "Anything happening opposite?"

"Nope. Nothing." He looked at me again. "If it weren't for this woman, I would have gone to prison."

"You _did_ go to prison," Shirley pointed out.

"I'll get a candle for the table. It's more romantic," Angelo said, walking away.

Really? Romantic? "I'm not her date!" I called after him, annoyed.

"You might as well eat," Shirley said, unfazed by it all, "We might have a long wait."

Angelo suddenly returned and set a (rather pathetic looking, I might add) candle on the table. I pursed my lips in annoyance, but I knew there was no use in protesting against it, so I just thanked him.

Shirley and I sat in silence for a moment as she stared intently out the window watching for... well, who knows exactly what she was looking for. I began to think about my experience with her so far and what it had brought upon me. I remembered being kidnapped. Who was that woman anyways? She had claimed to be Shirley's archenemy and Shirley had basically confirmed it. But that was ridiculous. Who had archenemies, really? I mean, sure Shirley was a bit odd, but she couldn't have had archenemies. Didn't she have friends? A boyfriend? Family? Anything? I was determined to find out.

"People don't have archenemies," I brought up suddenly.

My random comment caught Shirley off guard enough to make her look away from the window for a moment in confusion. "Sorry?"

"In real life," I said, "There are no archenemies in real life. I just doesn't happen."

"Really? Sounds a bit dull," Shirley said, looking out the window again.

"So who did I meet?" I asked.

"So then what do people have in their "real lives"" Shirley asked.

"Friends," I said, "You know, people that they like, people they don't like, boyfriends, girlfriends."

"Right. Like I was saying: Dull."

Now was my chance to find out more about her. "So you don't have a boyfriend?"

"Boyfriend? No. Not really my area."

Not really her... Did she mean...? "Right... Do you have a girlfriend?" I asked, "Which is fine, by the way."

Shirley looked at me again. "I know it's fine."

I nodded. "So you've got a girlfriend?"

"No."

I nodded again, feeling slightly uncomfortable, not really sure what to say now. "OK. So, you're unattached... like I am. Right. Good. Fine."

I looked down at the table again, trailing off. I was suddenly aware though, after a moment, that Shirley was looking at me instead of out the window.

"Look, Jen," she said slowly, "I think that you should know that I consider myself, well, married to my work. And while I'm flattered by your interest, I'm not..."

Whoa, whoa, whoa! I nearly choked on my own saliva. This conversation needed some serious sorting out immediately! "No. No. I'm not asking- no," I interrupted her quickly, "I was only saying, it's _all_ fine."

Shirley had one eyebrow raised, but she looked slightly more relaxed. "Good... Thank you." She looked away and back out the window

Ugh! Why me? Did that really just happen? Why? Why? Why? As I was having an internal spasm, Shirley began to tense up as her eyes locked in on something outside.

"Look across the street," Shirley said, gesturing, "Taxi stopped and nobody's getting in, nobody getting out. Why a taxi? Oh that's clever. Is it clever? Why is it clever?"

"That's him?" I asked, squinting my eyes, trying to see into the cab.

"Don't stare," Shirley said.

"But you're staring," I pointed out.

"We can't both stare," Shirley said, grabbing her coat and getting up.

I got up to follow her, but I did not even notice that I had left my cane behind. I was so caught up in the excitement of the idea that we were heading out to maybe catch a murderer that I forgot all about it. I didn't even notice that I was walking normally, and apparently Shirley didn't notice either because we walked right outside and watched the cab closely.

We could see the man inside look around for a a moment, but then the cab suddenly began to drive away. Shirley immediately took off running after it, nearly avoiding being hit by another car which honked incessantly at her. I followed after her, holding up my hands apologetically to the driver of the car. Shirley suddenly stopped when she realized that she could not catch up with the taxi.

"I've got the cab number," I told her.

"Good for you," she said.

She suddenly put her hands to her head and closed her eyes. "Right turn, one way, roadwork, traffic lights, bus lane, pedestrian crossing, left turn only, traffic lights."

What? Did she like have London memorized or something? I didn't really have time to question it as she took off running in a different direction the the cab had gone. I quickly followed after her. She really had no problem with pushing people out of the way, which I had to apologize for as I followed after her.

Shirley sprinted into a building and up some stairs which led onto the roof. I was amazed that she knew where she was going. It was almost as if she had run it a thousand times. Either that or she had a GPS in her head.

Shirley suddenly leapt from one rooftop to the next with enormous ease. As I reached the edge and looked at how large the gap was, I stopped. I had done gymnastics before and was used to making leaps, but this one looked a little bit large and I was a little nervous that I wouldn't be able to make it.

"Come on, Jen! We're losing him!" Shirley called.

I was a bit put off that Shirley could perform such a feat in a pencil skirt and heeled ankle boots, and I was hesitating in my jeans and trainers. So I plucked up my courage and leapt out over the gap. I made it safely and proceeded to run after Shirley.

We made our way down off the rooftop and back to the streets. I saw the cab drive past just as we reached the street again. Shirley grumbled as it did, but continued running.

"This way," she told me.

But I was so caught up in my own momentum that I went in the entirely wrong direction.

"No,_ this_ way!" Shirley yelled at me.

"Sorry!" I said, quickly switching my direction and following her.

We ran down several more streets, Shirley turning random corners, still surprising me that she kew where to go. Finally, Shirley leapt out of the ally way we were running down into the street, right into the path of the cab we were pursuing, stopping it in its tracks.

Completely out of breath, she half stumbled to the passenger door. "Police! Open her up!" she cried.

She opened the door and looked at the man sitting in the back. After taking one look at him, she sighed in annoyance. "No," she said, "Teeth, tan. What, Californian? LA, Santa Monica. Just arrived."

"How could you possibly know that?" I asked, also completely out of breath.

"The luggage," Shirley said, pointing to suitcase at the confused man's feet, with a tag stuck on it. She turned to him again. "This is probably your first trip to London, right? Judging by your final destination and the route the cabbie was taking you."

"Sorry, are you the police?" the man asked in an American accent.

"Yeah," Shirley said, holding up a card for a moment, "Everything OK?"

The man smiled for a moment. "Yeah."

Shirley paused, then said, "Welcome to London."

I felt like I had to say something as well. "Uh, any problems, just let us know," I said.

Then I shut the door and the cab drove off.

"So it was pretty much just a cab that happened to slow down," I said to Shirley.

"Pretty much," Shirley agreed.

"Not the murderer."

"No, not the murderer."

I suddenly remembered the card that Shirley had briefly shown the man in the cab and saw that she still had it in her hand. "What is that? Where did you get this?" I asked, taking it from her.

It was a police ID card for Lestrade. A picture of the ponytail-wearing, firm jawed, sullen-faced detective inspector was on it, but I suspected that Shirley had managed to cover it when she showed it to the man.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade?" I asked, wondering how on earth she had managed to obtain the card.

"Yeah. I pick-pocket her when she's annoying," Shirley said, "You can keep that one. I've got plenty at the flat."

It was then that the ridiculousness of the entire situation dawned on me and I began to giggle. The chasing the cab, jumping over rooftops, scaring a random American, pick-pocketing a police officer. Shirley looked at me, confused.

"What?" she asked.

"Nothing," I said, still smirking, "Just "welcome to London"."

Shirley smiled in return. We both noticed the man from the cab talking to a police officer not too far off and pointing in our direction. We would probably have to get out of there soon.

"You got your breath back?" Shirley asked.

"Ready when you are," I replied.

With that, we took off running once more.


	9. The Drugs Bust

We ran basically the entire way back to 221B. Once inside, we both leaned up against the wall, gasping for breath. Just how far had we run? An outrageous amount. And with rooftop hopping included!

"That was ridiculous," I said through my pants, "That was the most ridiculous thing I've ever done."

"Really? Even topping your adventures in India?" Shirley asked.

I let out a laugh and Shirley joined in.

"Why didn't we go back to the restaurant?" I asked, composing myself once more.

"They can keep an eye out," Shirley replied, "It was a long shot anyway."

"So why did we go?" I wondered.

Shirley shrugged. "Oh, just passing the time," she replied, "And proving a point."

Point? She hadn't really proved much other than the fact that the murderer had _not_ come to the cafe. "What point?"

"You," Shirley replied. She turned towards the interior of the flat. "Mr. Hudson," she called, "Dr. Watson will take the room upstairs!"

When did I ever confirm that? I never said that I would to her. "Says who?" I asked.

"Says the man at the door," Shirley replied.

Just then, right on cue, there was a knock. As I was closest, I answered. It was Angelo from the cafe. He was holding my walking stick in his hand. "Shirley texted me," he said, "She said that you forgot this."

I looked back at Shirley who gave me a wide smile. It was then that it dawned on me that I had just chased down a cab and run over rooftops at top speed without any pain in my leg whatsoever. It _had_ been in my head all along! I was dumbfounded and relieved at the same time.

I took the cane from Angelo, thanking him profusely, then shut the door.

Just as I came back to Shirley's side, Mr. Hudson came around the corner, a worried expression on his kindly face. "Shirley, what have you done?" he asked, sounding distressed.

"What?" Shirley asked, confused.

"Upstairs," Mr. hudson said, pointing.

Shirley's forehead wrinkled in concern and confusion and she rushed upstairs, me following close behind. Shirley opened the door and we saw all around the flat were police officers rummaging through the cabinets and furniture. Right in the center of the room sat Lestrade in one of the armchairs, silver ponytail and all, with her arms and legs crossed, sitting as though she were expecting us anytime for tea.

"What are you doing?" Shirley demanded.

"Well I knew you were going to find the case," Lestrade said, "I'm not stupid."

"You can't just break into my flat!" Shirley said.

"Well you can't withhold evidence!" Lestrade retorted, "And I didn't break into your flat."

"Yeah? Well then what do you call this?" Shirley asked, gesturing to the hullaballoo around us.

Lestrade shrugged. "It's a drugs bust," she replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

I had to snort at that one. That was the most ridiculous excuse I ever heard. Shirley on drugs? Ha! "Seriously?" I asked, "This girl, a junkie? Have you met her?"

However, Shirley was looking slightly uncomfortable. "Umm, Jen..." she mumbled.

But I hardly noticed and pressed on with my protests to Lestrade. "I'm pretty sure that you could search this flat all night and you wouldn't find anything that you could call recreation."

"Jen, you might want to shut up now," Shirley said through clenched teeth.

"Yeah, but come on," I said, turning to her, still amused.

However, her stern expression threw me off. She wasn't really...? But, she looked so serious. "No," I said.

"What?" Shirley asked.

"You?"

"Shut up!" Shirley said with a frown. She turned back to Lestrade, "I'm not your sniffer dog."

"No. Anderson's my sniffer dog," Lestrade said.

"What?"

We turned and saw Anderson standing in the doorway to the kitchen. He gave Shirley a little wave and she scowled at him. "Anderson, what are you doing here on a drugs bust!" she cried.

"Oh, I volunteered," he replied, his eyes scanning over her as they did before at the crime scene.

"They all did," Lestrade said, "None of them are technically on the drugs-squad, but they were very keen."

Sally suddenly appeared next to Anderson, holding up a jar of... something. "Are these human eyes?" she asked uneasily.

"Put those back!" Shirley ordered.

"But they were in the microwave," Sally said.

"It's an experiment," Shirley grumbled.

"Keep looking, guys!" Lestrade called out. She stood up and turned to Shirley as the irritated detective started pacing the room in annoyance. "Or you can start helping us properly and I'll stand them down."

"This is childish," Shirley said.

"Well I'm dealing with a child," Lestrade replied, "Shirley, this is our case. I'm letting you in, but you do not go off on your own. Alright?"

"Oh! OK! So you set up a pretend drugs bust to bully me?" Shirley demanded.

"It stops being pretend if they find anything," Lestrade said.

"I am clean!" Shirley insisted.

"Is your flat? All of it?" Lestrade asked.

Shirley frowned and rolled up her sleeve. "I don't even smoke," she said, showing Lestrade one of the nicotine patches on her arm.

"Neither do I," Lestrade said, rolling up her own sleeve and showing a nicotine patch on her arm as well, "So let's work together. We found Rachel."

"Who is she?" Shirley asked, suddenly forgetting her annoyance.

"Jenny Wilson's only daughter."

"Her daughter?" Shirley repeated, "Why would she write her daughter's name? Why?"

"Nevermind that!' Anderson piped up from behind, "We found the case, "According to someone, the murderer has the case and we found it in the hands of our favorite psychopath."

Shirley whipped around to face him, glowering. "I'm not a psychopath, Anderson, I'm a high functioning sociopath. Do your research," she said firmly. She turned back to Lestrade, "You need to bring Rachel in and question her. I need to question her."

"She's dead," Lestrade said.

"Excellent. How long, when, why?" Shirley asked quickly, "Is there a connection? There has to be."

"Well I doubt it since she's been dead for fourteen years," Lestrade said, making Shirley frown in frustration, "Technically, she was never alive. Rachel was Jenny Wilson's stillborn daughter."

Shirley paused, looking completely puzzled. "That... that's not right. Why would she do that? Why?"

"Why would she think of her daughter in her last moments?" Anderson asked, "Yeah, sociopath, I'm seeing it now."

Shirley turned to him again, glowering once more. "She didn't _think_ about her daughter. She scratched her name in the floor with her fingernails. She was dying. It took effort, it would have hurt."

I was pondering the whole situation on my own, trying to come up with a plausible solution. I remembered something that Shirley had said earlier. "You said that the victims all took the poison themselves, that he makes them take it," I remarked, "Well maybe he, I don't know, talks to them? Like, maybe he used the death of her daughter somehow."

"But that was ages ago! Why would she still be upset?" Shirley asked.

Everyone froze, staring at Shirley. I could hardly believe that she had just said that. I could feel my mouth hanging open slightly. Shirley seemed to realize that she had said something wrong because she immediately curled her lips together and looked at me with a slightly uncomfortable look. "Not good?" she asked quietly.

I was starting to understand her a bit more. She just did not get human emotion very well. She needed help. Why not give it to her? "A bit not good, yeah," I replied.

Shirley sighed. "But if you were dying, in your very last few seconds, what would you say?" she asked.

""Please, God, let me live"," I replied easily.

"Oh, use your imagination," Shirley said.

My mouth tightened. "I don't have to."

Shirley blinked. In that one blink, I saw real regret for what she had just said. It was probably the first true emotion I had ever seen expressed by her besides annoyance or amusement. However, she quickly brushed it off and continued on. "But if you were clever, _really_ clever. Jenny Wilson, running all those lovers, she was clever. She is trying to tell us something."

She began pacing again. Mr. Hudson suddenly appeared in the doorway. "Isn't the doorbell working?" he asked, "Your taxi's here, Shirley."

"I didn't order a taxi. Go away!" Shirley snapped, still pacing.

Mr. Hudson looked around the flat and shook his head. "Oh dear, they're making such a mess. What are they looking for?"

"It's a drugs bust," I explained.

Mr. Hudson gasped. "But they're just for my back," he said, "They're herbal soothers."

"SHUT UP! Everybody shut up!" Shirley yelled suddenly, "Don't move, don't speak, don't breathe. I'm trying to think. Anderson, face the other way, you're putting me off."

"What? My face is?" Anderson asked, frowning.

Lestrade was watching Shirley closely, almost expectantly. "Everybody quiet and still," she ordered, "Anderson, turn your back."

"Oh for goodness sake!" Anderson groaned.

"Your back! Now!" Lestrade ordered sternly.

Anderson rolled his eyes and slowly turned around. Shirley still paced with her hands against her temples, urging herself to think.

"What about your taxi?" Mr. Hudson asked.

"Mr. Hudson!" Shirley roared at the little old man.

Mr. Hudson retreated out of the room and down the stairs.

Shirley suddenly perked up, wearing a smile. "Oh!" she said, "Oh, she was clever, clever. Yes! She's cleverer than you lot and she's dead! Do you see? Do you get it? She didn't lose her phone, she never lost it. She _planted_ it on him. When she got out of the car, she knew that she was going to her death so she left the phone in order to lead us to her killer."

"But how?" Lestrade asked.

Shirley stopped. "What do you mean "how?"?"

Lestrade shrugged.

"Rachel!" Shirley declared happily.

What? No one responded.

"Don't you see? Rachel!" Shirley repeated.

Umm... We've had that name from the beginning, how did it make anything different now? How did it lead us to the killer? I looked around and saw that everyone else looked just as confused as I was.

Shirley saw too, and her smile faltered slightly. "Ohh, look at you lot. You're all so vacant," she said with a half exasperated chuckle, "Is it nice not being me? It must be so relaxing. Rachel is not a name."

I had just about had enough of her sarcasm. "Then what is it?" I asked impatiently.

"Jen, on the luggage, there's a label with an email address," Shirley said pointing to the pink suitcase.

I got up and went over to the case while Shirley pulled out her laptop. I found the label and read the email address. ".," I read out to Shirley.

"I've been too slow," Shirley said, opening a website on her computer, "She didn't have a laptop which means she did her business on her phone, so it's a smartphone that's email enabled. So there was a website for her account. So her username is her email address and altogether now is..."

I suddenly made the connection as she typed in the six letter password. "Rachel."

"So we can read her emails. So what?" Anderson asked.

"Anderson, don't talk out loud. You lower the IQ of the whole street," Shirley said, "We can do much more than just read her emails. It's a smartphone, it's got GPS, which means if you lose it, you can locate it online. She's leading us directly to the man who killed her."

She started the GPS on the website and it began to beep, locating the phone.

"Unless he got rid of it," Lestrade said.

"We know he didn't," I said.

"Come on, quickly!" Shirley growled at the screen.

Mr. Hudson suddenly entered the room again. "Shirley, this taxi driver..."

Shirley got out of the chair and turned to Mr. Hudson impatiently. "Mr. Hudson, isn't it about time you had your evening soother?"

Shirley turned back to Lestrade while I took over watching the GPS load. "Get vehicles, get a helicopter," Shirley said, "We're going to have to move fast. This phone battery won't last forever."

"We'll only have a map reference, not a name," Lestrade pointed out.

"Well it's a start," Shirley said.

The GPS finally stopped loading and I looked at the results. But... it couldn't be. "Shirley?"

Shirley didn't hear me, still in deep planning with Lestrade. "Narrows it down from just anyone in London. It's the first proper lead we've had."

"Shirley?" I said again.

Shirley rushed to my side. "Where is it? Where?"

"It's here. In 221B Baker Street," I said slowly.

Shirley frowned, completely confused. "How could it be here? How?"

"Well maybe it was in the case when you brought it back and it, I don't know, fell out somewhere," Lestrade suggested.

"And I didn't notice it? Me?" Shirley asked.

"Anyway, we texted him and he called back," I said.

"Guys, we're also looking for a mobile," Lestrade called to her men, "Belonged to the victim!"

Shirley suddenly seemed to space out for a long moment, a look of deep concentration on her face. After a while, her face began to relax and she looked almost as if she had realized something. She suddenly checked her phone and then looked up, her mouth open slightly.

"Shirley, are you OK?" I asked.

"What?" Shirley asked, still sounding slightly spaced out, staring at the door, "Yeah... yeah, I'm fine."

"So, how can the phone be here?" I asked.

"Dunno," Shirley replied in the same airy tone, still watching the door.

"I'll try it again," I said, turning to the GPS.

"Good idea."

I looked back at her and saw that she was slowly walking out the door. "Where are you going?"

"Fresh air. Just popping out for a moment. Won't be long," she replied.

I frowned, feeling uneasy about her behavior. "Are you sure you're alright?"

"I'm fine!" she said, and then disappeared down the stairs.


	10. Let Me Take You For a Ride

_Phew! This was a long chapter, but I've managed to finish it. So enjoy!_

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Now I had no idea that Shirley had just figured out who the murderer was in that moment, nor did I realize that she had just gone outside to confront him because he had arrived at our flat and was waiting for her. But it had all happened. Now, after this whole ordeal was over, Shirley told me everything that occurred once she left the flat.

We now had a dead cabbie, a broken window, and a crime scene at a college. What was it all about? As we sat in the Chinese restaurant, I leaned in closer to her. "So, what exactly happened back there?" I wondered.

Shirley didn't say anything for a moment and simply took a bite of her food. I think this was probably the first time I had ever seen her eat. Funny, I was starting to think she just got her nourishment from the air or something. Finally, she looked up at me.

"First of all, I'm sure that you realized that I went downstairs to confront the murderer?" she asked.

I nodded. "Well that's clear to me now," I said, "But how did you figure it out?"

"I began thinking about who the murderer could possibly be. You remember what I told you before? He passed unnoticed wherever he went, hunted in the middle of the crowd. Then it occurred to me, a cab driver. Of course! Each of the victims were all in need of a cab the night the died. I then wondered how the phone could have possibly been at the flat when it occurred to me that someone must have brought it there at some point in time, which could only mean that the murderer had brought it since he was the one who had possession of it.

"It was at that moment that I received a text that read only, 'Come with me.' Then everything fell into place. There was a cab driver waiting for me downstairs. Of course! How could I have been so blind?

"It was then that I left you and Lestrade to go outside. I found the cabbie standing in front of his cab which was parked right outside our flat. He fit my profile of an experienced cabbie. He was shorter, older, and wore small round glasses.

"'Taxi for Shirley Holmes,' he said.

"'I didn't order a taxi,' I told him.

"'Doesn't mean you don't need one,' he replied.

"I recognized him of course. I remembered him from our little trip to Northumberland Street. 'You're the cabbie,' I said, 'The one that stopped outside Northumberland Street. It was you, not your passenger.' See, Jen? He had come to Northumberland Street after all.

"'No one ever thinks about the cabbie,' he said, 'It's like you're invisible. Just the back of a head. Proper advantage for a serial killer.'

"'Is this a confession?' I asked him.

"'Oh yeah,' he said, 'I'll tell you what else, if you call the coppers now, I won't run. I'll sit quietly and they can take me down, I promise.'

"'Why?' I asked.

"'Because you're not going to do that.'

"'Am I not?' I challenged.

"'I didn't kill those four people, Ms. Holmes,' he said, 'I spoke to them and then they killed themselves. If you get the coppers now, I promise you one thing, I will never tell you what I said.'

"With that, he turned to get into the taxi. Naturally, I was curious. 'No one else will die though, I believe they call that a result,' I said.

"'And you will never understand how those people died,' the cabbie said, 'What kind of result do you care about?'

"He got into the cab. He was good, I had to admit. He knew how to play on my burning curiosity. I looked in through the window at him, 'If I wanted to understand, what would I do?' I asked.

"'Let me take you for a ride,' he said.

"'So you can kill me too?' I asked.

"'I don't want to killed you, Ms. Holmes,' he replied, 'I'm going to talk to you and then you're going to kill yourself.'

"He was _very_ good and playing with my curiosity. His overconfidence that he would be able to kill me challenged my own confidence that I would be able to escape it. After a moment, I did get into the back of the cab.

"You know me well enough by now to know that I of course had deduced enough about him and his situation within the first minute of our drive to tell him his whole life story, but I'll get back to that later. In the meantime, I decided to ask him some questions I was not entirely clear on, such as how he had found me.

"'I recognized you,' he told me, 'As soon as I saw you chasing my cab. Shirley Holmes. I was warned about you. I've been on your website too. Brilliant stuff, loved it!'

"Out of the many flatteries that came out of his mouth, the part about the warning was what interested me the most. 'Who?' I asked, 'Who would notice me?'

"'You're too modest, Ms. Holmes,' he said.

"'I'm really not.'

"'You got yourself a fan.'

"Of course this fascinated me. 'Tell me more.'

"'That's all you're going to know in this lifetime.'

"We didn't say anything more until we arrived at out destination. Naturally, I recognized it immediately, but I played the fool as the cabbie got out and came around to my door. 'Where are we?' I asked.

"'You know every street in London,' he said, 'You know exactly where we are.'

"'Roland-Kerr Further Education College. Why here?'

"'It's open,' the cabbie explained, 'The cleaners are in. One thing about being a cabbie, you always know a nice quiet spot for a murder. I'm surprised more of us don't branch out.'

"'And you just walk your victims in? How?' I wondered.

"He immediately proceeded to pull out a gun and point it at my head. He couldn't have been more boring and predictable. 'Dull,' I told him.

"'Don't worry,' he assured me, 'It gets better.'

"I was not impressed at all though. You can't just make people take their own lives at gunpoint. And I made a point of telling him so.

"'I don't,' he said, 'It's much better than that. I don't need this with you, because I know you'll follow me.'

"He withdrew the gun and began walking towards one of the buildings to the college. I admit, my curiosity did overrule my pride and I got out of the cab to follow him. He led me into a random classroom and switched on the lights.

"'So what do you think?' he asked. I only shrugged since I did not know what part of the room I was supposed to be critiquing. It was just an average classroom with tables, chairs, lab tables, etc.

"'It's up to you,' the cabbie said, 'You're the one who's going to die here.'

"I was amused with his confidence. Because what could he possibly say that would make me want to take my own life? 'No, I'm not,' I said, matching his confidence.

"'That's what they all say,' the cabbie said. He gestured to one of the tables, 'Shall we talk?'

We both took a seat at the table, facing each other. 'Don't you think it was a bit risky?' I asked him, 'You took me away under the nose of about half a dozen policemen. They're not that stupid. And Mr. Hudson will remember you.'

"'You call that a risk?' the cabbie asked, 'Nah. This is a risk.'

"He then pulled out a small glass bottle containing a single white pill with red speckles and set it on the table. I knew what it was. It was the poison he had used to kill the four other people, but I still wondered how had he managed to get them to take it.

"'I like this bit,' he said, 'Because you don't get it, do you? But you're about to. I just have to do this.'

Then he took out another small glass bottle with a single pill inside it and set it beside the first. They both looked exactly the same. I stared at the bottles, trying to figure out what it meant.

"'Weren't expecting that, were you?' the cabbie asked, 'You're going to love this.'

"'Love what?' I asked.

"'Shirley Holmes, look at you. Here in the flesh. That website of yours, your fan told me about it.'

"Again, I was puzzled with this mysterious person, my so-called fan. 'My fan?' I asked, slightly exasperated.

"'You are brilliant,' the cabbie said, 'You are a proper genius. _The Science of Deduction_. Now that is proper thinking. Between you and me, why can't people think? Don't it make you mad? Why can't people just think?'

"'Oh I see. So you're a proper genius too,' I said sarcastically.

"'Don't look it, do I?' the cabbie replied, 'Funny little man driving a cab. But you'll know better in a minute. Chances are, it'll be the last thing you'll ever know.'

"I had, had enough of his overconfidence for now and wanted to know what he intended to do with the two pills in front of us. 'OK, two bottles. Explain.'

"'There's a good bottle and a bad bottle,' the cabbie explained, 'Take the pill from the good bottle, you live. Take the pill from the bad bottle, you die.'

"'Both bottles are of course identical,' I said, catching on.

"'In every way,' he replied.

"'And you know which is which?' I asked.

"'Of course I know!'

"But I don't.'

"'It wouldn't be a game if you knew,' the cabbie said, 'You're the one who chooses.'

"'Why should I? I've got nothing to go on,' I pointed out, 'What's in it for me?'

"'I haven't told you the best bit yet,' the cabbie said, 'Whatever pill you choose, I take the pill from the other one. And then together, we take our medicine. I won't cheat. It's your choice. I'll take whatever pill you don't. You didn't expect that, did you, Ms. Holmes?'

"I admit, this little game of his intrigued me. It was a proper tricky little setup he had. 'So this is what you did to the rest of them?' I asked, 'You gave them a choice?'

"'And now I'm giving you one,' he replied, 'Take your time, get yourself together. I want your best game.'

"There was one major flaw in his setup that I greatly disapproved of, however, which I immediately proceeded to point out to him. 'It's not a game, it's chance.'

"'I've played four times, I'm alive,' the cabbie said, 'It's not chance, Ms. Holmes, it's chess. It's a game of chess. And this is the move.'

"He then pushed one of the bottles towards me. 'Did I just give you the good bottle or the bad bottle?' he asked, 'You can choose either one.'

"I was not as entertained by this game anymore, even with his little chess move. I stared at the two bottles for a long while. There did not seem to be any possible way to determine which was the good one or which was the bad one.

"'Are you ready yet, Ms. Holmes?' the cabbie asked after a long while, 'Ready to play?'

"'Play what?' I asked, 'It's a 50/50 chance.'

"'You're not playing numbers, you're playing me,' the cabbie said, 'Did I just give you the good pill or the bad pill? Is it a bluff, or a double bluff, or a triple bluff?'

"'Any way, it's still just chance,' I insisted.

"'Four people in a row? It's not chance,' the cabbie said.

"'Luck,' I said.

"'It's genius!' the cabbie replied, 'I know how people think.'

"I recall rolling my eyes when he said that. I've yet to meet another person besides myself who knows the human mind as well as I do. This cabbie was just being far too overconfident.

"But the cabbie continued on. 'I know how people think I think,' he told me, 'I can see it all like a map inside my head. Everyone's so stupid, even you. Or maybe God just love me.'

"'Either way, you're wasted as a cabbie,' I said. Now, it was time for a game-changer. 'So, you risked your life four times just to kill strangers, why?'

"'Time to play,' the cabbie said.

"'Oh I am playing,' I said, 'This is my turn. There's shaving foam behind your left ear. Nobody's pointed it out to you. There's traces of where it's happened before, so obviously you live on your own. There's no one to tell you. But there's a photograph in your cab of children and the children's mother have been cut out of the picture. If she'd died, she'd still be there. The photograph's old, but the frame's new. You think of your children, but you don't get to see them. Estranged father. She took the kids, but you still love them and it still hurts. Ah, but there's more. Your clothes, recently laundered, but everything you're wearing is at least three years old. Keeping up appearances, but not planning ahead. And here you are on a kamikaze murder spree, what's that about?'

"It was then that the last puzzle piece fell into place and I realized. 'Ahh, three years ago. Is that when they told you?' I asked.

"'Told me what?' the cabbie asked.

"'That you're a deadman walking,' I replied.

"'So are you,' the cabbie retorted.

"'But you don't have long now, do you?' I asked.

"'Aneurism, right here,' he said, pointing to his head, 'Any breath could be my last.'

"'And because you're dying, you've just killed four people?' I wondered.

"'I've outlive four people,' he corrected me, 'That's the most fun you can have on an aneurism.'

"But somehow, that didn't seem right to me. 'No,' I said, "There's something else. You didn't just kill four people because you're bitter. Bitterness is a paralytic. Love is a much more vicious motivator. Somehow this is about your children.'

"'Oh, you are good, aren't you?' the cabbie remarked.

"'But how?" I asked.

"'When I die, they won't get much, my kids,' he said, 'Not a lot of money in driving cabs.'

"'Or serial killing,' I remarked.

"'You'd be surprised,' he said.

"'Surprise me,' I said.

"'I have a sponsor,' he told me.

"'You have a _what_?'

"'For every life I take, money goes to my kids,' the cabbie explained, 'See? It's nicer than you think.'

"'Who would sponsor a serial killer?' I asked, shocked.

"'Who would be a fan of Shirley Holmes?' he asked, 'You're not the only one to enjoy a good murder. There's others out there just like you, except you're just a woman. And they're so much more than just one person.'

"'What do you mean, more than one person?' I asked, 'An organization? What?'

"'There's a name that no one says, and I'm not going to say it either,' the cabbie said, 'Now enough chatter. Time to choose.'

"'What if I don't choose either?' I asked, 'I could just walk out of here.'

"The cabbie pulled the gun he had out of his pocket and pointed it right in my face. 'You can take the 50/50 chance or I can shoot you in the head,' he said, 'Funny enough, nobody's ever one for that option.'

"'I'll have the gun, please,' I said.

"'You sure?' the cabbie asked.

"'Definitely,' I replied, 'The gun.'

"'You don't want to phone a friend?' the cabbie asked.

"'The gun,' I insisted.

"The cabbie pulled the trigger, but, as I expected, only a flame came out the end. It was a cigarette lighter, not an actual gun. "I know a real gun when I see one," I told him.

"'None of the others did,' the cabbie said.

"'Clearly,' I replied, 'Well this has been very interesting. I look forward to the court case.'

"I got up to leave and was almost to the door when the cabbie called me back. 'Just before you go, did you figure it out? Which one's the good bottle?'

"'Of course,' I replied, 'Child's play.'

"'Well which one?' he asked, 'Which one would you have picked, just so I know whether I could have beaten you. Come on, play he game.'

"I hesitated, but decided to go back and pick up the bottle with what I had decided had the clean pill in it. 'Oh, interesting,' the cabbie said, picking up the other bottle, 'So what do you think? Shall we? Really, what do you think? Can you beat me? Are you clever enough to bet your life? I bet you get bored, don't you. I know you do. A woman like you, so clever. But what's the point of being clever if you can't prove it? Still the addict. But this, this is what you're really addicted to. You'll do anything, anything at all to stop being bored. You're not bored now, are you?'

"We were both so close to putting the pills into our mouths when suddenly a shot rang through the air and the cabbie fell to the ground. Now, I don't have to tell you, Jen, where that shot came from. I looked at the broken window across the room where the shot had been fired from and saw nothing, then I looked at the cabbie who was lying on the floor in his own blood, coughing.

"'Was I right?' I asked, 'I was, wasn't I? Did I get it right?'

"The cabbie didn't answer and I threw down the pill in frustration. 'OK, tell me this,' I said, 'Your sponsor, who was it? The one that told you about me, my fan. I want a name.'

"'No,' the cabbie said.

"'You're dying,' I said, 'But there's still time to hurt you. Give me a name.'

"The cabbie still refused, so I did what I had to and stepped on his wounded shoulder, forcing him to cry out in pain. "A name, now! The name!"

"Finally, he gave in and shouted, 'MORIARTY!"

"I took my foot off him just as his eyes closed in death. And that, Jen, is the whole story."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_This was sort of a shout out to the old Sherlock Holmes stories where Holmes would always tell Watson his stories after he's returned from whatever adventure he'd just been on. I figured it was the best way to tell the whole cabbie/pill scene. Reviews are appreciated! :)_


	11. A Childish Feud

OK, now we're back to my version of the story. You may be wondering about what I was doing during this whole ordeal. Let me tell you, I was not just sitting on my backside. Once Shirley had left the flat to confront the cabbie, I tried calling Jenny Wilson's phone again.

I looked out the window and saw Shirley get into a cab, confusing me entirely. "She just got in a cab. Shirley just got in a cab," I told Lestrade.

"I told you, she does that," Sally said. She turned to the other officers in the apartment, "We're wasting our time!"

After several rings and there was still no answer. "I'm calling the phone," I said, "It's ringing out."

"If it's ringing, it's not here," Lestrade said.

"I'll try the search again," I offered, going back to Shirley's computer and restarting the GPS search.

"Does it matter? Does any of it?" Sally asked, "She's just a lunatic and she'll always let you down. You're wasting your time, all of our time."

Lestrade stared at her for a moment and then sighed. "OK everybody," she finally said, "We're done here."

I watched, feeling slightly crestfallen, as the police began to pack up and file out of the flat. Lestrade was the last one to go. She pulled on her overcoat and looked at me. "Why did she do that? Why did she have to go?"

I shrugged. "You know her better than I do," I replied.

"I've known her for five years, and no I don't," Lestrade said.

"So why do you put up with her?" I asked.

"Because I'm desperate," Lestrade said, heading for the door, "Because Shirley Holmes is a great woman, and I think that if we're very, very lucky one day, she might even be a good one."

With that, she left the room, leaving me alone. It was very quiet, except for the even humming of the GPS search on Shirley's laptop since it it was still searching. It was taking a very long time this time. I tried tiding up the room after the mess the drugs squad had made. After a few minutes, I picked up my cane which I had left leaning against the desk earlier.

It was amazing that Shirley had managed to cure me of my limp just like that. I gave a small smile to myself and went to go store it away, since I wouldn't be needing it anymore. However, just as I had one foot on the stairs, I heard the GPS beeping. It had finished.

I turned back and looked at the screen. It no longer said that the phone was in 221B Baker Street, it gave an entirely new location at some place not too far away. I quickly picked up the laptop and ran down the stairs, grabbing my coat and purse along the way.

I didn't have much trouble catching a cab once outside. I opened Shirley's laptop and gave the cabbie instructions as we went. I began to put the pieces together a little. I realized that Shirley must have _somehow_ figured it out and went there herself, that's why she got in the cab and drove off earlier. Oh dear, she must have realized how dangerous that was, confronting a murderer alone, right? Didn't she? Ugh! How could someone as clever as her be so stupid at the same time?

I pulled out my phone and dialed Scotland Yard. However, I had some trouble getting a hold of Lestrade. "No, I need to speak with Detective Inspector Lestrade. It's important. It's an emergency!"

After much arguing and insisting, mostly on my part, I finally managed to get my message to Lestrade, although not directly. The receptionist, or whatever she was, said she would take a message for me since Lestrade wasn't there at the moment. What sort of police station was this anyways?

Anyways, I finally reached the place where the GPS specified. It was at some college, and sure enough, there was another cab parked in front of it. There were two buildings and the cab was parked directly between the two of them, so I could not tell which one Shirley went inside of. After much deliberation, I finally picked one and ran inside.

The building was much larger than I originally anticipated and all of the hallways and doors looked the same. I ran down each hallway, trying to open some doors, calling Shirley's name all the way. Most of the doors were locked and the rooms that were unlocked, were empty.

But I didn't give up. She had to be there somewhere. Every second I spent looking was a second wasted. Who knows what was happening between her and the murderer. I ran down a different hallway, with no luck finding an unlocked door. Finally, I managed to find a doorknob that turned. However, he door was jammed. I reared back and forced my full body weight into it, practically falling into the room.

As I looked up, I could see through the window into the next building. And there was Shirley. I was in the wrong building! She was standing with her back to me, facing a short older man, holding something small in her hand.

I tried screaming her name. "SHIRLEY!"

But to no avail. She couldn't hear me through two windows. I could see the older man was talking to her, I could only assume that he was the murderer. I was watching Shirley closely. I could see her slowly starting to raise something to her mouth. It looked like a pill! The poison!

My mind began to spin. I had to stop her somehow, but I had already tried getting her attention and there was no way I would be able to get over there fast enough. As I tensed up my shoulders, I felt my purse resting there. Of course!

As fast as I could I opened it and pulled out my gun. I had no choice here. It was Shirley or a serial killer. Taking careful aim, I fired. I hit my mark exactly. Right in the shoulder of the murderer.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Almost as soon as I had fired the shot, I had run out of the room so Shirley wouldn't see me. I ran out of the building and as far away from that college as possible before the police showed up. I had called them after all. After waiting a considerable amount of time, I took a cab back to the scene.

The first person I met was Sergeant Sally Donovan. I asked her what it was all about and she explained the whole situation to me about the cabbie, the two pills, everything.

As soon as she was gone, I immediately began looking for Shirley. It didn't take me long to find her. She was sitting on the back of an ambulance with a shock blanket around her shoulders and Lestrade at her side. She looked a bit peeved about something and was gesturing to the blanket about her, so I assumed she was upset about that. I edged closer, hoping to hear what they were saying. Had I been seen? Did they know it was me who had fired the shot? I hovered nearby, but tried to appear not to notice them. I could hear only bits and pieces of their conversation.

"...no sign?" I could hear Shirley ask.

"Cleared off... a guy like that... had enemies," Lestrade said, "Nothing to go on."

I saw Shirley smile smugly and I heard Lestrade mumble something.

"The bullet... dug out of the wall... from a handgun," Shirley said, then I couldn't hear much more, but she carried on for a while longer. As she spoke, she suddenly looked at me, then began to trail off. I glanced away as casually as possible.

I tried to avert my eyes as much as possible, but I could still see Shirley trying to escape the questioning Lestrade. Eventually she pointed to the blanket around her shoulders, looking very concerned and upset. Finally, Lestrade gave a nod and gestured for her to go. Shirley walked in my direction, tossing the shock blanket into a police car as she approached me.

I cleared my throat. "Well, Sergeant Donovan's just been explaining," I said, "Two pills. Horrible business, isn't it? Dreadful."

Shirley didn't say anything for a moment and just had one eyebrow raised slightly wearing a half smile. "Good shot," she said.

I swallowed. Did she know? I decided to go for the coverup approach. "Yes, it must have been, through that window."

"Well you would know," she said.

I closed my mouth. She _did_ know. How had she found out? Well, she was _her_, I supposed. I shouldn't have been too surprised.

"Did you get the powder burns out of your fingers? I don't suppose you'd serve time for this, but let's avoid the court case," Shirley suggested.

I cleared my throat once more.

"Are you alright?" Shirley asked.

"Of course I'm alright," I said, probably not entirely convincingly.

"Well you did just kill a man."

Right. I did, didn't I? "Yes, I know. That's true," I said, slowly, "But, he wasn't a very nice man."

Shirley smiled. "No. I don't suppose he was, was he?"

"And a frankly awful cabbie," I added, smiling along with her.

Shirley giggled. "Yeah, he was a bad cabbie," she agreed, "You should have seen the route he took us to get here."

We both chuckled heartily. I covered my mouth to keep it from growing into a full blown laugh. "Stop it, we can't giggle, it's a crime scene," I said.

"Well you're the one who shot him, don't blame me," Shirley said.

At that moment, Sally passed us and glanced at us suspiciously. "Keep your voice down," I hissed at Shirley. "Sorry, it's just, uh, nerves, I think!" I said to Sally.

Sally raised an eyebrow, but continued on. I turned back to Shirley. "You were going to take that pill, weren't you?"

"Of course I wasn't," she replied, "Biding my time. Knew you'd turn up."

I snorted. "No you didn't," I said, "That's how you get your kicks, isn't it? You risk your life to prove you're clever."

Shirley crossed her arms defiantly. "And why would I do that?"

"Because you're an idiot," I replied simply.

A smile crept over Shirley's face. "Dinner?" she asked.

"Starving," I answered.

We both started walking out and away from the crime scene. "At the end of Baker Street, there's an excellent Chinese that stays open until 2:00," Shirley told me, "You can always tell a good Chinese by examining the bottom third of the door handle."

Just as we reached the edge of the crime scene, I spotted a woman climbing out of the back of a black car. It was the same woman who had kidnapped me earlier that night. Shirley's archenemy! What was she doing at the crime scene?

"Shirley, that's her," I said pointing to the woman, "That's the woman I was talking to you about."

Shirley's face darkened as she spotted the poshly-dressed woman with the perfect hair and umbrella and extremely high heels. "I know exactly who that is," she growled, walking towards her. I followed. I was very interested to see how this would play out.

"So, another case cracked," the woman said as we approached, "How very public spirited. Although that's not really your motivation, is it?"

"What are you doing here?" Shirley asked icily.

"As ever, I'm concerned about you," the woman replied lightly.

"Yes, I've been hearing all about your concern," Shirley snapped.

"Always so aggressive," the woman simpered, "Did it never occur to you that we belong on the same side?"

"Oddly enough, no," Shirley said.

"We have more in common than you'd like to believe," the woman said, "This petty feud between us is simply childish, people will suffer. And you know how it always upset Mummy."

Hold on. Hold the phone! I had been very into their little verbal sparring thus far, but the woman's last sentence completely caught me off guard.

"I upset her? Me?" Shirley asked, scowling, "I wasn't the one that upset her, Myra!"

"Wait! Wait! 'Mummy'? Who's 'Mummy'?" I cut in.

"Mother. Our mother," Shirley explained, "This is my sister, Myra." She looked at my kidnapper once more, "Putting on weight again?"

"Losing it actually," she replied, raising her eyebrows proudly.

"She's your sister?" I asked, still trying to process this new information.

"Of course she's my sister," Shirley said.

"So she's not...?" I began, uneasily.

"Not what?" Shirley asked.

"I don't know, a criminal mastermind?"

Shirley looked back at her sister and raised an eyebrow. "Close enough."

"For goodness sake!" Myra declared, "I occupy a minor position in the British government."

"Minor? She _is_ the British government when she's not too busy being the British secret service or the CIA on a freelance basis," Shirley said, "Good evening, Myra. Try not to start a war before I get home, you know what it does to the traffic."

She turned and walked away. I went to follow, but I had to clear a couple things up. Here I had been panicking about Shirley's own sister all night! I had read into what she had told me far too much, when she really meant them literally. "So, when you said you were concerned about her, you actually meant you were concerned?" I asked.

"Yes, of course," she replied obviously.

"And it actually is a childish feud?" I asked.

Myra sighed, looking after Shirley who stood some distance away, waiting for me. "She's always been so resentful," she said, "You can imagine the Christmas dinners."

"Yeah... no. No!" I said, trying _not_ to imagine it. I turned to go, but a voice called me back as I took a step.

"Hello again."

It was so-called Anthony, grinning and holding his phone. "Hello," I replied.

"We met earlier this evening, remember?" he said, still grinning as usual.

"Yes, I do. Goodnight," I said. And then I walked away.

"Goodnight, Dr. Watson," Myra called after me.

I caught up with Shirley and we began walking side by side. "So dim sum," I said.

"I can always predict the fortune cookies," Shirley said.

"No you can't."

"Almost can," Shirley replied, "You did get injured though."

"What?" I asked, caught off guard.

"In your accident, you were actually badly wounded," Shirley clarified.

"Oh yeah," I said. I never was actually that badly injured in my leg at all. The worst it was at was in: "In the shoulder," I said.

"Shoulder, I thought so."

Ha! Yeah right. Most people would normally think the neck or the back or something. I had healed ever so nicely in my shoulder anyways. There was no way she would be able to tell. "No you didn't," I said.

"The left one," Shirley stated.

"Lucky guess," I said.

"I never guess," Shirley replied.

"Yes you do," I said.

I noticed after a second that Shirley was smiling to herself, clearly thinking about something, although I could not imagine what it could be. "Why are you so happy?" I wondered.

"Moriarty," she replied.

"What's Moriarty?" I asked.

"I have absolutely no idea."

I did move into 221B Baker Street after this little adventure and we solved several more cases together, some big, some small, but I will always look back on this one with a certain special fondness. After all, this was the official beginning of Shirley Holmes and Dr. Jen Watson.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Well there you have it. Hope you guys enjoyed it! _


End file.
